


1983

by bumblebi221



Series: Waiting for You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aromantic Mycroft Holmes, Asexual Mycroft Holmes, Baby Sherlock Holmes, Drug Use, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sherlock, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebi221/pseuds/bumblebi221
Summary: John and Sherlock visit the Holmes parents and, much to the detective's embarrassment, recount Sherlock's childhood, from his infant days to college life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Waiting for You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043274
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83





	1. Mr. And Mrs. Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline I'm using doesn't quite match other timelines I've looked at, as there are some inconsistencies with dates in the show and I used different dates than some others. Also, I subscribe to EMP (Extended Mind Palace) theory. There’s a really great meta on it by thewatsonbeekeepers on Tumblr (highly recommend!), and my fics are also based on that theory. To sum it up is that Sherlock goes into his mind palace when he is shot by Mary in HLV, and pretty much everything afterwards from S3-S4 (including Christmas at the Holmes’, unfortunately!) is in his head. Just in case you’re confused on why this doesn’t match the show exactly.

It was the last day of March, 2015, and John was only just now meeting Sherlock’s parents. They’d only been dating for two months, but you’d think, since they’d known each other five years, he’d have at least met them once. That’s what he told Sherlock last week while watching a movie on the couch, and Sherlock had squirmed in response.

“Oh, come on,” he’d said. “Do you really need to meet them?”

“Yes,” John had answered. “I have so many questions.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. John put his arms around Sherlock. “Please? If they’re anything like you, they must be amazing.” John hoped the flattery would work, and hoped even more that Sherlock wouldn’t see through it. Sherlock sighed overdramatically.

“Fine,” he relented. John grinned.

One week later, they were in the car driving to Musgrave Hall in Surrey, nine week-old Rosie in a bucket seat in the back. She had been home with them for a week, after spending the first eight weeks of her life with her mother, Mary, in prison. She’d been arrested for shooting Sherlock and Magnussen while she was still pregnant, but Mycroft put her in a prison with a nursery for the baby, and allowed her to go to doctor’s appointments and had driven her to the hospital when it was time to give birth. Most prisons aren’t so accommodating, but when you’re Mycroft, you can do practically whatever you (or your brother and his boyfriend) want. Mary got to spend eight weeks with Rosie before giving her to her father to take care of. Sherlock was very excited when Rosie came home, and spent the next hour trying to talk to her as if she understood. He had talked about her new home at Baker Street, and about nice old Mrs. Hudson downstairs. John has lots of pictures of their conversation.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were waiting outside when they arrived. John was at once struck by how much Sherlock resembled his parents. He had his father’s eyes and mouth, and his mother’s nose. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes immediately rushed over to see the baby, who had just woken up and was very confused as to who these new people were. Everyone went inside and, once Sherlock and John had settled in and checked on Rosie, had lunch.

“John, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” said Mr. Holmes. “Mycroft’s told us so much about you.” John smiled. Of course Sherlock hadn’t told them anything. He was fidgeting and seemed itching to be anywhere but at that table. John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm and squeezed it in an effort to relax him.

“Thank you,” said John. “It’s great to meet you, too.” He could’ve sworn he heard Sherlock mutter “dull”, but he chose to ignore it.

“I can’t believe Sherlock never told us about you,” said Mrs. Holmes. “You met five years ago, and Mycroft tells us you’ve been dating for two months, but you never said a word! Why not?” She turned her attention to Sherlock, who was wriggling in his seat and turning red.

“May I please be excused?” he asked, trying to maintain a calm voice and nearly failing.

“No, you may not; we are having a nice lunch with your boyfriend!” Mrs. Holmes seemed incredulous. “We’re just happy for you, that’s all.” Sherlock made as if to get up from his seat anyway.

“Sherlock,” said John gently. He put an arm around his shoulders and guided him back down. Sherlock made a groan of annoyance but didn’t resist. He propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, clearly trying to convey his displeasure.

“At any rate, we know now, and we’re happy,” said Mr. Holmes, assisting John in defusing the situation. Sherlock’s face was now propped up by both of his hands, and he was sulking.

“So, Mrs. Holmes, I hear you were a math genius,” ventured John, stabbing a forkful of food. Mrs. Holmes smiled.

“I wouldn’t say genius,” she said. “I wrote a few books, but when Mikey was born I decided I’d rather raise him and this young man.” She gestured to Sherlock. Mr. Holmes shook his head, a bemused expression on his face.

“Don’t listen to her, she’s remarkable. Always too humble, this one.” Everyone seemed to be at ease except Sherlock, who tried once more to get up from the table.

“Sherlock,” said Mrs. Holmes with a warning tone. He sighed.

“I’m going to go check on Rosie,” he said. Babies were hard work, but they made great excuses sometimes. He went to his old room. Rosie’s bucket had been placed on the bed and she was sleeping soundly inside it. He stroked her cheek, then picked her up and cradled her gently. Her nap was almost over, and any minute now she’d wake up and start crying. She cried a lot now, and she had no qualms about doing it in the middle of the night. Thanks to the open windows, he could hear the others conversing in the dining room. Suddenly they erupted into enormous laughter. Sherlock’s hopes that Rosie didn’t hear were in vain. She started to cry, and Sherlock’s efforts to calm her down were fruitless. He tried bouncing her up and down, and shushing her, and rocking her, and hugging her, and he even got out the bee plushie with the crinkly wings but nothing was working. He was finishing changing her diaper when John ran in.

“Oh, she was doing so well,” he said, sighing. “Is she hungry?” Sherlock facepalmed, disappointed for not remembering that.

“Probably. I’ll heat up a bottle, you go enjoy talking to my delightful parents,” he said, rummaging in the supply bag for a milk bottle. John did so and left the room. The bottle heated up and ready, Sherlock was feeding Rosie when he heard a low chuckle from downstairs. Apparently everyone had moved to the sitting room. When Rosie was done with the milk, he brought her with him downstairs. “Let’s go see what everybody’s doing,” he whispered to her, her head resting on his shoulder.

“That’s really him?” laughed John from the sitting room. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he entered to find John sandwiched between his parents, a photo album open on his lap. He was pointing at a particularly embarrassing shot from his infant days. He had gotten his hands stuck in some lattice in the garden while exploring and was crying. Mycroft was behind him, trying to pull him out but only hurting Sherlock’s wrists more.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock asked his parents.

“Well, when we heard Rosie crying, we told John how you used to cry a lot as a baby and if he wanted to we could show him some photos,” explained his mother.

“And how could I refuse such a generous offer?” said John, grinning. Not even Sherlock’s glare could wipe the smile off his face. The three turned back to the album, flipping through and pointing out funny (embarrassing) photos.

“You should have seen Mycroft when Sherlock came home from hospital,” said Mr. Holmes. “He was so fascinated with his little brother.”

“Myron, don’t we have photos of that?” asked Mrs. Holmes.

“Oh, yes. We do! Would you like to see?” John nodded his head eagerly as Mr. Holmes went to fetch another album.

“I’m right here, guys,” groaned Sherlock. “Haven’t you embarrassed me enough for one day?”

“Nope,” said John, shaking his head and smiling. Myron sat back down with the new album and opened it up to the first page. Mrs. Holmes was in a hospital bed with a bundle of blankets in her arms. She was smiling, though she looked very tired. Sherlock’s face was just visible under the blankets, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He was sleeping peacefully. John turned the page, and it was Mr. and Mrs. Holmes with Sherlock in the car, ready to drive home. Then there were a couple photos of just Sherlock in the car seat. Turn the page. Mrs. Holmes, carrying baby Sherlock, was walking through the door into the hall, where seven-year old Mycroft was waiting, visibly excited to see his new baby brother. A couple shots of him peering into the seat, and poking Sherlock with his finger. Just then, the front door opened and in strode Mycroft himself.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got held up at the office.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Why is he here? Why are you here?” he asked, turning from his parents to his brother.

“I was invited to this gathering, as I am part of the family. And even if I weren’t, they’re my parents, too. I’m allowed to visit whenever I please.” He smirked at Sherlock. “What are we looking at?” he asked, addressing the people on the couch.

“Photos of you and Sherlock,” said John. Mycroft grimaced.

“Mother, is this necessary?” he asked.

“Oh, Mikey,” she responded. “Lighten up.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“What a surprise,” said Sherlock, turning his attention to Rosie, who seemed to be the only sane person left in the room. Rosie’s hand was resting on his cheek and she seemed disinterested in the whole affair. His parents and John turned back to the album while Mycroft looked on in disdain.

“I remember that day,” said Mycroft suddenly. They were still looking at pictures from Sherlock’s first day home. Sherlock looked up at him and stared. The three on the couch turned to face him as well. “I remember thinking he was the most interesting thing in the house, better than all the toys and puzzles and books I had.”


	2. Mycroft's World

Mycroft was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a globe, spinning it and stopping it with his finger. He was trying to figure out what language to learn next by choosing the country his finger landed on, but he kept hitting languages he’d already learnt. Uncle Rudy sat on the sofa to his left, perusing a fashion catalogue that Mycroft thought was dull. Mummy and Daddy were at the hospital getting his new baby brother, and they were going to come home today. Mycroft, at the suggestion of Uncle Rudy, had made him a welcome home card, which was next to him on the ground. He had drawn him and the baby with their parents on either side. On the inside of a card, he and the baby were wearing superhero capes and they were punching a bad guy. He had worked very hard on it, and was excited to show it to the baby.

Just then, he heard the car pull in and the doors slamming shut. He grabbed his card and ran to the door, opening it as Mummy came in. She was carrying a bundle of blankets inside which Mycroft could see two pale blue eyes, lids drooping. Daddy followed Mummy, and he was carrying the bags they’d brought to the hospital. Mycroft stood back to let them in the house, but as soon as they’d crossed the threshold he closed the door on the cold weather and rushed to see the new member of the family.

“Hello, baby,” he said to him. “I’ve made you a card. This is you.” He pointed to the drawing. “We’re going to have so much fun together.” The baby looked at him lazily.

“Mikey, what a nice picture. Shall we put it up on the fridge?” Mummy smiled at him.

“But it’s for him,” Mycroft said, confused as to why the baby was just staring at him.

“He’s a baby, he doesn’t really understand it. He will when he’s older, though,” she added upon seeing Mycroft look a tad dejected. He smiled a little.

“What’s his name?” he asked.

“William.” Mycroft scrunched up his face.

“What’s the rest of it?” Mummy sighed.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said. Mycroft grinned.

“I’ll call him Sherlock. Hello, Sherlock.”

Over the next few months, Mycroft spent lots of time playing with and taking care of his new brother. Sherlock didn’t seem very interested in what Mycroft thought was fun. He mostly just lay on his back and slept or cried. Sometimes he would just stare at Mycroft. One time Mycroft tried to explain to him the physics of how a superhero might be able to fly, but Sherlock just put his hand in his mouth and chewed on his little fingers. This annoyed Mycroft, but he was willing to let it slide because he was only a baby, and babies were interesting. They didn’t know anything, and so everything amazed them. Mycroft liked being able to amaze his brother.

One evening in March, the Holmes family was seated around the dinner table, Sherlock in a cradle in the next room.

“How was your day at school, Mikey?” asked his dad.

“It was passable,” said Mycroft. “The work was a tad boring, but I made a decent amount of money.”

“What do you mean?” His dad gave him a quizzical look.

“I’ve begun charging people for homework help.”

“Mycroft!”

“Everyone benefits from it, I don’t see the issue here.” Mummy sighed.

“Mikey, you don’t need money. Why not do it for free?”

“I wouldn’t want them to take me for granted.”

“Stop taking people’s money.”

“Okay, Mummy.” They sat in silence for a little bit, Mycroft focusing on his potatoes.

“Have you made any friends yet, Mikey?” his dad asked. Mycroft looked up from his plate.

“No, not yet. I don’t need them, though. I’ve done well enough on my own.”

“Everyone needs friends, Mikey.” His dad looked at him and his eyes were sad.

“I’ve got Sherlock, he’s good enough.”

“Sherlock’s a baby, you need a friend your age.”

“Why?”

“So you have a friendly face at school, someone to turn to, someone to pass the time with.”

“Whatever you say.” Mycroft decided that tomorrow he’d make a friend. He’d show his parents. He could do anything. Something so trivial as making pleasant conversation with a peer would be a piece of cake. Speaking of, Mycroft was ready for dessert.

After dessert, Mycroft’s dad lit a fire in the fireplace and he and Mummy sat on the couch, watching Mycroft play with Sherlock. The infant seemed to like it when Mycroft threw his stuffed animals into the air and caught them again. He made funny gasping noises while doing it, too, adding to Sherlock’s wide-eyed stare of amusement. He hadn’t laughed or even smiled yet (Mummy said that was normal), but Mycroft thought he could tell when Sherlock was having fun.

“There goes Mr. Bear!” said Mycroft in a silly, high-pitched voice. Mr. Bear went into the air and came back down to land in Mycroft’s outstretched hands. He wiggled the arms to make it look like he was dancing. Then, Sherlock’s mouth stretched into a wide, toothless grin. Mycroft dropped the bear, and Sherlock, thinking it was part of the game, smiled wider. “Mummy! Mummy, Sherlock’s smiling!” Mummy gasped and hurried over to the boys. She tickled Sherlock under the chin, and he kept smiling.

“Myron, get the camera!” she said excitedly. Mycroft clapped his hands, all too pleased to be the cause of Sherlock’s first smile.

The next day, Mycroft tried to strike up a conversation with the kid at the desk next to him. His name was Bill.

“Hello, Bill. Would you like to be friends?” he asked, smiling. People liked it when you smiled. But Bill gave him a strange look.

“Why?” Mycroft’s smile faltered.

“Well, you seemed nice, and you like superheroes, too,” he said, noticing the edge of a comic book poking out of Bill’s bag.

“Sure, we can be friends. Who’s your favorite superhero?” Mycroft grinned, proud of himself and excited to tell his parents.

Mycroft came home and brought his bag up to his room. Then he ran back downstairs to the sitting room, where Mummy was bouncing Sherlock on her knee while singing to him in French. Grandmother was French, so that was the second language Mycroft had learned and he understood everything Mummy was singing. When he entered the room, the two looked up at him, and Sherlock started smiling.

“Oh, hello, Mikey. How was school?” asked Mummy. Mycroft grinned.

“I’ve made a friend!” Mummy smiled.

“That’s wonderful, dear. Does your friend have a name?”

“His name is Bill Wiggins, and we both like superheroes.”

“I’m so proud of you, Mikey. How about a biscuit to celebrate?” Mycroft followed Mummy into the kitchen, where a plate of biscuits fresh from the oven was waiting on the table. He eagerly took one and finished it in three bites.

“What homework do you have today?” Mummy asked him.

“Basic multiplication tables. Up to twelve times twelve. I’ll be done in less than five minutes. And I have to choose a new reading book to tell my classmates about. Apparently Animal Farm is too complex and disturbing.” He made a face, confused at his classmates’ inability to understand.

“How about Charlotte’s Web? That’s got talking animals in it.” Mycroft considered this. On the one hand, it wasn’t very challenging, and he didn’t like doing tedious things. On the other, it wouldn’t take very long.

“Fine, I’ll do that.” He went upstairs and came back downstairs in less than twenty minutes, having completed the math and the reading. Sherlock was down for a nap, and so this was what Mycroft considered the most boring part of the day. He could sneak into the nursery and wake him up, or…

“Mummy, can Bill come over to play?”

“Bill? Oh, sure, Mikey. Do you want to ring him and ask?”

“Okay.” Mycroft walked to the cordless phone hanging on the wall and dialed Bill’s number. The boys spent the rest of the afternoon playing superheroes and drawing and making their own comics. Mycroft taught Bill all about how superheroes could theoretically fly, and the boys decided their comics would use real science so nobody could argue that it was unrealistic. Bill was a good artist, and Mycroft knew about science, so they made an excellent team. The Ink Man and the Professor battled many foes, and became famous among the children in Ms. Thomas’ third year class.

The months flew by. When Mycroft wasn’t co-running a successful comic business, he was playing with Sherlock. He could now laugh at Mycroft, a high-pitched giggle that fascinated Mycroft to no end. Anything he did would make the baby laugh, but buzzing noises worked the best.

“Bzz, bzz,” said Mycroft as Sherlock sat upright on the floor. Sherlock had started to do that a few weeks ago, which was great, because now they could play wherever they wanted without having to prop Sherlock up. Sherlock grinned, white nubs of teeth visible just above his gums. His hair was getting longer and darker. He clapped his hands together excitedly. “Bzzzz!” Sherlock squealed and giggled.  
“Sherlock, do you want to see something cool?” Mycroft leant forward, hands on his knees. Sherlock crawled forward and reached his hands out. Mycroft smiled as Sherlock grabbed his nose with one hand and his shoulder with the other. His pale blue eyes were wide and happy. “Wait, did you just crawl? Mummy! Mummy, come see this!” Mummy came rushing into the room.

“Mikey, what’s - ?” She stopped midsentence as Mycroft, who had moved across the room, held his hands out towards a crawling Sherlock. When the baby had reached the middle of the room, he fell, limbs splaying out beneath him, but he was determined, and soon he made it into Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft looked at Mummy, smiling proudly, while she made sure to snap a few photos.


	3. The Game is On (All Fours)

Now that Sherlock could crawl, he and Mycroft could go almost anywhere. One sunny day in August (on which, somewhere in Aldershot, a little boy named John was celebrating his second birthday), Mycroft decided they should play in the garden. He put Sherlock’s little rubber boots on and carried him out to the grassy play area surrounded by vibrant flowers. He set the baby down to explore. As always, Sherlock was immediately drawn to the bright colors of the flowers. He crawled over and started grabbing them with his hands, pulling them closer to his eyes. He made his way over to the mint plant, which was surrounded by bees. Sherlock watched them, captivated by the buzzing.

“Do you like the bumblebees, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, crouching next to his brother. He always asked this, in the hopes Sherlock would pick up on the word. Sherlock had started babbling, but he never said anything remotely meaningful, and so the most Mycroft could coax out of him was a b-b-b. He was also getting better at picking things up, and he was interested in everything, so Mycroft had declared himself safety supervisor and was always around to take stuff out of Sherlock’s hands or mouth.

After an hour, Sherlock was getting drowsy, so Mycroft brought him in for his afternoon nap. He set him down in the crib and went to get ready for Billy to come over. Billy always came over to play during Sherlock’s afternoon naps, so Mycroft was never bored. They had written over fifty issues, and had no plans to stop any time soon. Sometimes they’d spend the afternoons with Mycroft teaching Billy different things that they could use in their comic, and the other times were spent drawing and writing. Mycroft was such a good teacher that he and Billy were the two best students in class. Billy wasn’t as smart as Mycroft, but he was still remarkable compared to the other students. They were like goldfish.

And so Mycroft spent his days in bliss. He was excelling in school, enjoying time with his friend and his brother, and his parents were very proud of him. October rolled around, and with it came Mycroft’s eighth birthday. It was a relatively small party, attended by his parents, Billy, Sherlock, and Uncle Rudy. Mummy made a delicious chocolate cake with a superhero action figure standing amidst chocolate frosting and sprinkles. Billy gave Mycroft a cape and mask that had been made to look like those worn by The Professor in their comic strips. Billy revealed his own Ink Man costume, and Mycroft was extremely delighted. Halloween would be excellent this year.

At four in the afternoon on Halloween, Billy showed up in his costume. He and Mycroft were very excited to go trick-or-treating. Mummy had dressed Sherlock in a bee costume, and he was excitedly making buzzing noises. After enduring several pictures from dad, the two superheroes, accompanied by one bee and two parents, ventured out to get their candy. They ended up with a sizable haul, and Mycroft realized that if he rationed it, he could make it last until Christmas.

November passed in an ordinary fashion, and Mycroft was as happy as a child could be. He had all he needed or wanted. Sherlock could now walk while holding onto furniture, though he had yet to walk independently. A couple of times he had tried to climb out of his crib, though he never got very far before someone realized and ran in to stop him. He only ate when Mummy offered food; he never sought it on his own. It was getting more tiring to look after him when he seemed intent on getting into and onto everything, but at least he wasn’t crying nonstop. Mycroft did not remember as fondly the first two months of his brother’s life.

All December long, Musgrave Hall was filled with cheer and excitement for the coming holidays. Mycroft and Mummy decorated the house, and Sherlock helped (if you can call chewing on the garland helping). They made lots of sugary treats, and Mycroft got to ice the biscuits.

The Sunday before Christmas, the 18th, the Holmes family went out to get their tree. The tree farm they went to neighbored a regular farm, and as they drove by it, it was clear that Sherlock wanted to go there instead. Animals are much more fun than trees. They pulled into the lot and got out of the car. After trying to encourage Sherlock to walk, they decided it would just be faster to carry him. While Mummy and Daddy were picking out the tree, though, they set him down to play with Mycroft. He was standing still, nervous to take a step.

“Come on, Sherlock, walk towards me,” coaxed Mycroft. Sherlock smiled at him. “You can do it.” Sherlock took one step before falling down to crawl towards him instead. He clapped his hands, under the impression he did what was asked. Mycroft smiled and shook his head. “That wasn’t walking,” said Mycroft. Sherlock just laughed his high-pitched dolphin squeal, unaware of his brother’s disappointment.

“Mikey, what do you think of this tree?” His dad gestured to a large, full tree; the kind that immediately brings Christmas to mind and is everything a Christmas tree should be. It looked excellent for hanging ornaments from.

“It’s the perfect tree. Let’s get that one,” he said, pleased with the treasure. While his parents and the tree farmer worked on getting the tree secure on top of the car, Mycroft and Sherlock went back to the car. Mycroft buckled Sherlock into his car seat and went round to the other side to get in his own seat. Sherlock was getting antsy and did not like all this waiting, and Mycroft was looking around the car, trying to find any discarded toys that could distract him. Unfortunately, Mummy had cleaned the car out a few days ago and brought all the toys back inside. “Bzz bzz,” he said, causing Sherlock to turn towards him. The two smiled at each other and Sherlock clapped his hands. “Bzz, bzz,” Mycroft said again. Sherlock mimicked the sounds, and in this way, Mycroft was able to entertain him until their parents returned. Soon enough, they did, and the car pulled out of the lot.

When they got home, Mummy and Daddy put up the tree. Mycroft watered it and Sherlock played with one of the lowest branches. A few days later, when the branches had fallen enough to be decorated, they strung lights around it and put up the ornaments. Mycroft was very proud to put up one he’d made in school, a ceramic snowflake. Sherlock was captivated by all the shiny decorations, but for the safety of said ornaments, he was kept on the sofa with some non-fragile toys to play with.

The rest of the week was filled with activity as the Holmes prepared for Christmas Day and with that, visitors. Uncle Rudy was coming, as were both sets of grandparents, and there was lots to be done. The house had to be cleaned, and it was so big that this was no easy feat. Mycroft was in charge of dusting and cleaning all the windows, and keeping an eye on Sherlock. It was exhausting, especially since Sherlock couldn’t help.

Everybody arrived on Friday, two days before Christmas. Uncle Rudy showed up first, and Mycroft was very excited to see him. Uncle Rudy was the best. He always brought cool stuff for Mycroft and enjoyed playing with him. Then Grandma and Granddad showed up. They were Daddy’s parents, and they were really nice. They brought candy, and it wasn’t the usual stuff you got in the shops. It was special stuff from Mycroft didn’t know where. It was tasty. Grandmother and Grandfather were the last to show up. Mycroft wasn’t sure how to feel about them. They were Mummy’s parents, and they were very strict. They were always criticizing Mycroft for manners, eating, and not studying enough. He couldn’t exactly tell his grandparents to go away, though, so he was stuck with a fake smile plastered on his face as he listened to all their problems. It was a wonder that Uncle Rudy turned out so cool with parents like that.

Despite Grandmother and Grandfather’s attempts to ruin Christmas with limits on sweets and dull stories about how children these days were too coddled, Mycroft managed to have an excellent holidays. Everybody was impressed with how Sherlock could almost walk, though Grandfather was a tad disappointed he still needed to hold onto things. Everybody helped try to get Sherlock to say his first words, too, but their efforts were in vain.

Mycroft was very pleased with his gifts. He had gotten some comic books from Grandma and Granddad, and his parents had given him some too, as well as some candy and a book of puzzles (technically, that last one was from “Sherlock”, though Mycroft knew that wasn’t true). Grandmother and Grandfather had given him a “Boy’s Guide to Manners”. As soon as they weren’t looking, Mycroft put it in a bin at the very back of his closet. Uncle Rudy had gotten him a violin, though Mycroft didn’t play. Uncle Rudy thought that maybe it would be fun for Mycroft to learn, and would be beneficial to him. Mycroft decided it wouldn’t hurt to try, so he had no trouble smiling and saying thank you. Sherlock also got a good haul of presents. Mycroft had picked out for him a fuzzy blanket with bees on it, and the baby was over the moon about it. He seemed happy enough about the other presents (mainly picture books and stuffed animals), but the blanket stole the show.

Christmas dinner, apart from the constant manners-minding and portion-control from Grandmother and Grandfather, was quite enjoyable. Daddy had made roast beef and potatoes with various vegetables and other sides. Mycroft thought the rolls in particular were scrumptious. Sherlock had to have everything cut up into tiny pieces for him to eat, but he seemed to enjoy the food. Both boys went to bed that night feeling very full, and very happy.


	4. The Winds of Change

After Christmas, Mummy and Daddy almost immediately started planning Sherlock’s first birthday party. They were very excited about it and so was Mycroft. On the invite list were Uncle Rudy, Billy, Grandma and Granddad (Grandmother and Grandfather were busy), and various friends of Mummy and Daddy. Mycroft would be in charge of making the cake, since he had done so well with helping make the Christmas treats.

They took a break from planning on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, and Mummy and Daddy went to a party at Uncle Rudy’s house. Mycroft and Sherlock were sent to Billy’s for the evening, and Mycroft was very excited to have a sleepover. He and Billy made their comics while Sherlock played with some toys, and then when Sherlock went to bed, they had a Superman movie marathon, with popcorn and everything. They stayed up until one in the morning having fun and talking about the details of the movies. In the morning, the two Holmes boys went home, Mycroft rather reluctantly.

One of Mycroft’s resolutions for the new year was to learn to play the violin gifted to him by Uncle Rudy. He took the instrument and bow out of the case and opened the lesson book to the first page. He tuned the violin and adjusted and rosined the bow. The first exercise in the book didn’t use the bow, though, so he put it back in the case. The exercise involved plucking the strings and learning their names, as well as how to play notes that required fretting. He had no trouble learning the theory, however, he had difficulty in actually playing the notes. He figured he would just need practice, and so he practiced every day. By Thursday, however, he still struggled with fretting, and the bow just made everything more difficult. He was getting very frustrated.

Luckily, making Sherlock’s birthday cake provided a much needed distraction. It was a chocolate cake with green frosting, and paper bumblebees sticking up on toothpicks. Mycroft frosted yellow and pink flowers as well. It was a very pretty cake (and tasty, too!). The rest of the day was spent cleaning the house and decorating it with streamers and balloons. Mycroft also helped Mummy wrap Sherlock’s presents.

Friday dawned, and with it, Sherlock’s big day. Mycroft ran into his nursery to wake him up, but instead found the child already awake and bouncing up and down while holding onto the railing of his crib. He seemed to know already that it was a big day, and had a big smile on his face. Mycroft lifted him up, changed and dressed him, and brought him downstairs. Daddy was filming and everyone immediately began to sing Happy Birthday to the toddler, who clapped his hands excitedly at all the attention.

Around one in the afternoon, the guests showed up for the party. Sherlock still couldn’t walk on his own, but with the help of furniture and Mycroft’s hand, he made it around to all the guests to say hi. Since he couldn’t talk yet, this consisted of waving at them, clapping his hands, and squealing, though this delighted the guests just the same.   
The party was most enjoyable. Grandma and Granddad had brought extra-special candy for the occasion, and Mycroft was shocked at how delicious it was. It was a new level of tasty. For Sherlock’s present, they had brought a picture book about pirates, which seemed to interest the birthday boy and provided something for him to enjoy other than bees. Billy (or rather, Billy’s mom) had picked out some pajamas for Sherlock, and Uncle Rudy had gotten him a little car that he could ride on and push. Mycroft had chosen for him a “the farmer says” wheel that made a bunch of animal noises.  
After presents, it was time for cake. Everyone was amazed at Mycroft’s stunning work, especially Sherlock.

“Bumbabee!” he cried. Everybody turned to each other. Sherlock didn’t talk two weeks ago. Mummy and Daddy looked incredibly surprised, but also amazed, as due to a massive stroke of luck, Daddy had been filming the cake and so caught the moment on camera. Mycroft was surprised too, but immediately burst into a grin as he realized his work had paid off. He had helped Sherlock learn the word. He ran over to give Sherlock a hug. “Bumbabee!” he squealed again.

“Yes, bumblebee,” said Mycroft, smiling. “Good job, Sherlock.” Everybody cheered for Sherlock and clapped, causing the excited boy to keep saying the word. He soon got tired of pleasing the masses, however, and turned his attention to the dessert he was desperate to eat. The masterpiece cake was sliced up and parceled out to all the guests, and when Sherlock got his piece, he immediately started mashing it into his mouth, picking it up in his tiny fists. Everybody laughed, and Mummy came over to wipe Sherlock’s mouth, which was now coated in crumbs. Mycroft received many compliments on his baking, and the atmosphere was light and carefree.

At six, all the guests went home, and the Holmes family spent the evening playing with Sherlock, reading the new book to him, and trying to get him to say more words. Unfortunately, bumblebee was the only word he’d say for a while. The rest of January passed with little mention, except for the last week. Sherlock finally expanded his vocabulary, learning “Mikey”, “Mama”, “Dada”, “no”, and “why” in quick succession and in that order, though the frequency of the words left something to be desired.

One evening in February, Mycroft was in the sitting room, playing with Sherlock, when he got up to get some water from the kitchen. He was filling up the glass when behind him he could hear a noise. Pat, pause. Pat, pause. Thud, longer pause. Pat, pause. Pat, pause. Then a tug on his pant leg. He turned around to see Sherlock, standing right behind him, smiling innocuously. Mycroft nearly dropped the glass, and decided to set it down in case of further shock.

“Sherlock, did you just walk?” The younger one blinked, still smiling. “Mummy! Daddy! Come here! Sherlock can walk!” The Holmes parents rushed in, but by that point, Sherlock had dropped back down to the ground in a crawling position. “Sherlock, no, show Mummy and Daddy your walking.”

“No,” said Sherlock. Mycroft decided to try a different approach.

“Go into the sitting room,” he said to his parents. “I’ll be right in.” They obeyed, and, with a last, hopeful look at the toddler, Mycroft followed them in. After a few minutes of expectant waiting, the pattering noise could be heard in the kitchen. A few seconds later, Sherlock waddled in slowly in search of Mycroft, immediately dropping to the ground on seeing his parents.

“Sherlock, you did it! Amazing!” cried Mummy, while Daddy looked frantically for the camera. Sherlock looked rather confused as to why he was being cheered, but smiled anyway. Mycroft gave him a hug and a pat on the head.

“Can you do it again?” asked Daddy, now with the camera ready. Sherlock stared at him and shook his head slightly. He crawled over to the toy bin and busied himself with one of the many entertaining objects to be found. He decided the car was what he wanted and pushed it around absently, often stopping if something else caught his eye before moving on and continuing in laps around the room. Mycroft shook his head a little, bemused and disappointed that Sherlock’s first steps were over so soon.

The months passed and by May, Sherlock was walking around much more, and he was also much better at it. He was talking more and more, though he still didn’t know too many words. Mycroft had finished fourth year, and he and Billy had created over 100 issues of their comic. In July, he went over to his friend’s house for his birthday party. It was lots of fun, but the whole day, Billy was acting a little strange, almost as if he weren’t entirely happy.

“What’s the matter, Billy?” asked Mycroft once all the other guests left. They were sitting on Billy’s front porch, snacking on some candy. Billy fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

“We’re moving,” he said glumly. All of the air disappeared from Mycroft’s lungs and he could barely get his next words out.

“Where? And when?” Billy took a deep breath.

“London. And we’re leaving at the end of August.” Mycroft felt his eyes water up, but he didn’t want to cry right now.

“Well, London isn’t so far. It’s only an hour away. We could visit on the weekends,” he rambled on, in denial.

“Yeah, we could,” said Billy. “But you’ll make new friends, and I’ll make new friends, and suddenly we won’t be friends anymore. That’s what happens to everyone.” Mycroft shook his head.

“No, that won’t happen to us,” he declared, though deep down he knew it probably would. He went home that day in the lowest of spirits, not even saying hello to Sherlock, who was confused as to why Mycroft didn’t want to play. He trudged upstairs to his room, closed the door, and sat on his bed, tears silently streaming down his face. He read all their old comics, but that just made him more sad, and so he went to bed early that night, not even coming down for dinner.

Around eight in the evening, a knock on Mycroft’s door startled him. He invited the visitor in and saw that it was Mummy.

“Mikey, what’s the matter? You came home in a mood and have been up here all afternoon and evening! I didn’t want to bother you, but you haven’t eaten since Billy’s party and I had to intervene.” Mycroft sighed and traced an imaginary pattern on his blanket.

“Billy’s moving to London and I’ll never see him again,” he said, putting his head in his hands. Mummy came over and rested her hand on his back, rubbing it gently in an attempt to soothe him.

“You can visit him on the weekends, and you can call him on the phone,” she offered.

“But he’ll make new friends and we’ll grow apart and it won’t be the same,” he lamented.

“You’ll make new friends too, even if you can’t see Billy all the time.” Mycroft shook his head.

“Billy’s the only one who’d want to be friends with me. And he’s the only one I wanted to be friends with,” he added. Mummy didn’t know what to say.

“Why don’t you get some sleep,” she said. “You’ll feel a little better in the morning.” Mycroft barely slept that night, and instead tossed and turned the whole time.


	5. Caring is Not an Advantage

Mycroft did his best to enjoy his remaining time with Billy that summer, but as soon as he came home he’d immediately go upstairs and distract himself with a puzzle, or schoolwork, or extra work he’d assigned himself, so he wouldn’t think about the end of the summer. He still couldn’t get the hang of the violin and in early August he gave up entirely. The violin was put in the closet with the book of manners. He only came downstairs for dinner, and always ate as fast as possible so he could leave quickly. He ended up eating more, as when one eats fast they don’t realize they’re full until much later.

Sherlock was very confused as to why Mycroft didn’t want to play anymore. He’d make his way upstairs and toddle over to Mycroft’s closed door.

“Mikey,” he’d say at first eagerly, but as time went on it turned into more of a question. Mycroft felt bad ignoring his brother like that, but he really didn’t feel like playing.

On his last day with Billy, Mycroft brought over a present for him to take to London. It was a set of colored pencils, and it came with a hundred different shades. There was also a big sketchbook.

“Now you can draw everything you see in London,” said Mycroft.

“Thanks, Mike,” Bill answered, admiring the rainbow of colors. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he added. “London seems kinda scary.”

“You’ll do great there. And you can tell me all about it on the phone and over the weekends.” He and Bill said their goodbyes, and Mycroft went home. He had expected it to be the saddest day of his life, but instead he found he just felt numb, as if it were all a dream or as if it weren’t real.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said to the toddler when he walked inside. Sherlock waved and smiled, happy to see his brother for once. Mycroft patted him on the head. In that moment, he decided he’d never go away like that again. For that to happen, he had to shield himself off from the rest of the world, so he couldn’t be sad like that again. He found it surprisingly easy to switch off that part of him. In fact, not caring was so much easier than caring. It was almost as if Mycroft really didn’t care about anything but Sherlock.

In the fall, Mycroft began fifth year, and he delved back into his way of life before he had befriended Billy. He worked and played alone at school, came home and did his studies, and in the evening ate dinner and played with Sherlock. Mycroft wasn’t quite happy, but he wasn’t sad, so he counted that as a win. His ninth birthday party was family-only and consisted mainly of cake and presents. Meanwhile, Sherlock was beginning to learn the alphabet, which excited the whole family.

In the winter came Christmas and Sherlock’s second birthday. He was much more vocal now about what he wanted, and he got very upset if he didn’t get it. Mycroft found this to be exhausting and preferred to let Mummy and Father handle it. Mycroft used the tantrum time to further advance his studies. The spring and summer passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock was getting very good at singing the alphabet and could recognize some letters written out, though inconsistently. In the fall, Mycroft turned ten, and Sherlock celebrated Halloween as a pirate. Mycroft went trick-or-treating with him, but didn’t dress up himself.

Sherlock turned three in January, and was now talking in small sentences. Mycroft was glad because it was getting easier and easier to communicate with Sherlock and it took less effort on his part. Sherlock was also expressing an increasing interest in pirates. He wore his costume a lot and had taken to saying “arrgh” and “aye-aye” in response to some questions. In the fall, Mycroft began sixth year, his last year of primary school. He was eager to finish and move on to something more challenging.

Sherlock’s fourth birthday came around and it was pirate-themed. Mycroft devised a clever map that would lead the birthday boy to the treasure of birthday gifts, and Father made an excellent pirate cake that made Sherlock very happy. That summer, Sherlock spent lots of time running around with his sword at any beach they went to (they went to a lot, as Sherlock was very excited to be a real pirate in the ocean). Mycroft, meanwhile, honed his abilities and was progressing rapidly in general academics, but also observation and deduction. He could have skipped ahead to university if he really wanted to, but he didn’t feel like it.

Sherlock turned five, and was enjoying his last months before his first day of school. He was excited to go and meet other kids, and learn, but he was also sad to not be able to play pirates all day. He started asking Mycroft about what school was like, and whether it was fun or not. Would he learn a lot? Are the kids nice? What about the teachers? What would he learn? How long is break time? Mycroft would think about his life at school. He never learned very much; what he did learn, was on his own. Billy was the only nice kid he’d known, and everyone else had made fun of him for his prowess. The teachers were nice enough, but he didn’t really pay much attention to them. And then he’d open his mouth to tell Sherlock, but his little brother’s eyes were so wide and full of hope. They had only known love and kindness and were unaware of the cruelty of kids. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell Sherlock how mean the world was. But what did it matter? Sherlock wasn’t like Mycroft. He was ordinary. Just like the other kids. They had nothing to single him out for.

So on the first day of school, he said nothing when Sherlock came downstairs with his backpack crammed full of books and cool things to show to the other kids. He said nothing when he ate his breakfast in record time. He said nothing when Sherlock put on his giant rubber boots (they were lucky) that didn’t match the outfit Mycroft had strategically set out for him. He just smiled and kept his sadness to himself. Sherlock was a little weird, but he’d be fine. Most kids were enthusiastic about their interests at that age, and pirates wasn’t the worst one you could have.  
Mummy dropped Sherlock off first and Mycroft second. When they pulled into the school lot, Sherlock practically jumped out of the car and would’ve ran straight for the door if it weren’t for Mycroft. He grabbed him by the shoulder and kneeled down so they were eye-to-eye.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Have an excellent first day at school, alright? Don’t let anything ruin it.” Sherlock smiled and nodded and, turning, ran to catch up with the other kids trickling into the building.

“Bye, Mikey!” he yelled over his shoulder. Mycroft took a deep breath and got back in the car to go to his school. He hoped Sherlock would have a good day.

When school got out, Mycroft was the first to be picked up by Mummy, and then the two drove to fetch Sherlock. When they pulled up to the building, they were early, and had to wait a few minutes before kids started leaving. They couldn’t spot Sherlock anywhere. The kids were almost all gone, and yet Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Mycroft, suspecting the worse, entered the building. He walked as fast as he could (no running) down the halls, looking for his little brother. He was on the verge of losing it when suddenly, from the restrooms, he heard a really quiet sob.  
He threw open the door to find two giant rubber boots visible under the door of one of the stalls. His heart sank as he knocked on the stall door.

“Who is it?” said Sherlock between sniffs.

“It’s me,” Mycroft answered. “What happened?” The stall door swung open to reveal Sherlock’s red, blotchy face. His eyes were puffy and he had tears and snot streaming down his face. Mycroft reached for a napkin to wipe his face before the younger Holmes answered.

“You were wrong,” he said. “The kids were mean. Well, they weren’t at first.” ]

“What do you mean?”

“I went inside, and they thought my pirate lunchbox was really cool, and so I showed them my other pirate stuff, and they seemed nice. Then the teacher told us to sit down, so we did, and she was saying what our class would be like. And I started asking questions. She didn’t like that. So then the kids picked on me because the teacher obviously thought I was a weirdo.” Mycroft gave him a hug.

“Kids do that. They always pick on the ones who are different. They pick on me, too. But I don’t care. Caring is not an advantage. It prevents me from seeing what matters, which is why I am so successful, and my peers are not.”

“You don’t care?”

“I don’t. And it’s easy not to. Caring provided me no benefit, so I don’t care anymore.”

“How?”

“I just stopped. Many people probably think there’s something wrong with me, but does that bother me?”

“You don’t care.”

“Right, brother dear.”

“How do I stop caring?”

“Just don’t let things get to you. Pretend there’s a wall, and you can’t hear what the others are saying. Words only have power if you let them have power, so simply don’t let them.”

“What if I can’t? What if I’m not like you?”

"Of course you're like me. We're brothers."


	6. A Brief Interlude

“Little did I know that you were not, in fact, like me, Sherlock,” said Mycroft suddenly, interrupting his narrative. “Of course, I knew I was smarter, we both did, but I didn’t think you cared. I always found it so exhausting to show emotions and care, and I assumed it was the same for you, too.”

“Not caring caused me nothing but pain for years, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s eyes glazed and he looked back at Rosie to try and calm himself down. Mycroft looked down at his shoes.

“I didn’t know at first. I was only trying to protect you.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Mikey, is this true?” asked Mrs. Holmes, a horrified expression on her face. Mycroft was not in the position to correct her on his name, and continued to stare guiltily at his shoes. “I’m disappointed in you. You told your little brother to stop feeling emotions?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft in a very small voice. He cleared his throat. “But I was twelve. Based on the fact that I did not need to feel emotions, I assumed my genetically similar brother did not, either. Hardly something you’d expect a child to question.”

“And neither of you, not once in all these years, ever realized you were wrong?” Mr. Holmes asked, genuinely confused. Horrified as well, but looking more confused.

“I figured it out when Sherlock was a teenager, and I tried to tell him, but he brushed me off.”

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Holmes’ shocked expression turned to one of perplexity. Sherlock looked ashamed.

“I thought feelings were stupid by that point. Even though I had them, I wished I didn’t, so I worked really hard to suppress them.” Everybody was quiet for a moment before John spoke up.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not doing it anymore,” he said, in an attempt to clear the room. He gave a small smile, hoping it wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. Sherlock returned his smile, and Mrs. Holmes let out a nervous chuckle.

“As am I,” replied Sherlock.

“What was it like? Trying not to feel things, I mean,” asked John.

“It hurt.” He stood for a moment, thinking. “Mycroft, I met a Bill Wiggins in a drug den last year. Is he the same one you were friends with?” Mycroft looked up, surprise written clear as day across his face for a moment before he composed himself.

“It’s a possibility,” he surmised. “What did he look like?”

“He was pretty tall. He had a beard, though I suppose that wouldn’t help if you haven’t seen him since he was nine. He had light brown hair and blueish eyes.”

“So did Billy.” Mycroft stood there for a moment. “I think I’ll head out now. Charming to see you all. Goodbye, Rosie.” He turned and walked out the door.


	7. The Science of Deduction

Sherlock deposited his book bag on the table and stalked upstairs to his room. Per the advice of Mycroft, he had decided it was best to not care about things, and so he needed work to do to fill the time a caring person would’ve spent crying. He opened up his notebook and started writing down what he had observed at school that day, like he’d done for the past year since that awful first day of school.

The kids who play football during break always end up with a cloudy brown dirt stain on their lower legs, and darker spots of soil on the bottoms and lower sides of the shoes. Often their knees are dirty as well. The kids who stay up past their bedtime have bags under their eyes and usually look dazed when they enter the class, and they move slower. Mrs. Morris smoked in the past, though currently she’s in the process of quitting. Her teeth are slightly yellowed, and so are her nails. She has breathing issues if she gets too worked up, and her voice is sometimes raspy.

He closed his notebook and sighed. This wasn’t exactly useful information. It mostly just got him either weird looks or a black eye. Nobody needed you to tell them they’d been smoking. That was considered impolite. Offensive. He’d been sent to the headmaster’s office numerous times for upsetting people. Sometimes Sherlock wondered why he still bothered with this. He went downstairs, looking for something interesting to do, when the headline on the newspaper resting on a table caught his attention. Tragic Carl Died ‘Doing What He Loved’. Sherlock opened the paper to read the article. A boy named Carl Powers had died while swimming. The article said drowned. But there were many things about the case that didn’t quite make sense. All of Carl’s clothes had been in his locker, except his shoes. The article listed out the contents of the locker. The police either didn’t notice or didn’t care, for it wasn’t brought up as something important. Where were his shoes? Just then, Mycroft walked in. Sherlock didn’t even look up to say hello.

“Hello, Sherlock. How was school?” asked the elder brother. Sherlock kept his gaze on the article.

“Dull.”

“Any interesting observations?”

“Nope.”

“What’s that you’re reading?” Mycroft approached the table, standing just behind Sherlock’s shoulder to read the entry for himself.

“The police are wrong,” said Sherlock. “He didn’t drown. Something happened. His shoes are missing.”

“Excellent work, brother.”

“I could help the police.”

“I doubt they’d listen to you. You’re only six.” Sherlock glared at him. “But who am I to stop you?” Sherlock got up and went to the phone. He dialed the number for the London police station and waited until someone picked up.

“London police, how can I help?” asked the person on the phone.

“Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I have a question about the Carl Powers case,” said Sherlock, using his best grown-up voice. It wasn’t hard; he was very mature anyway.

“How old are you?” the person on the other end asked.

“My age is irrelevant. I read about the case in the paper, and I noticed that Carl’s shoes were missing. It seemed important, so I wanted to know if you were aware of this.”

“We’re aware, yes. I don’t think it’s of any importance,” he dismissed. “How old are you?” Sherlock sighed.

“I’m six years old.”

“Look, kid, we appreciate your interest, but we’ve got it under control. Carl simply drowned, that’s all.”

“But he was an experienced swimmer, why would he drown?”

“Maybe he got tired. I’m really busy right now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang up.” Click. Sherlock put the phone back on the hook aggressively and stomped over to the table. Too young.

“I told you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Now, let me see your arm.” Sherlock pulled it away before a look from his brother made him do otherwise. Mycroft rolled up the sleeve to find a dark bruise. “Who did this to you?”

“Just someone in my class. I told him his dad was having an affair with someone and he got mad.”

“He still shouldn’t have done this to you,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock could’ve sworn there was anger in his voice, but Mycroft never showed emotion. Mycroft took a deep breath. “Come on, Sherlock.” He stood up and grabbed his coat.

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock, grabbing his own.

“Figure it out,” replied Mycroft with a smile. The two brothers walked for what to Sherlock seemed ages to get to town.

“Are we going to visit Dad?” asked Sherlock. Dad did work in town, after all.

“No, although if you want to later, we can.” Sherlock furrowed his brows, trying to think of where else they could be going. Just then, however, Mycroft pulled him left into one of the shops. It was the ice cream parlour. Sherlock had only been here a few times with Mummy when he was really little. It was a nice establishment. There were booths all along the left-side wall, and the case with all the ice cream ran along the right hand side, and a large blackboard on the back wall with the different flavors and toppings written on it. There were so many of them, Sherlock found it hard to choose just one.

“What should I get, Mycroft?” he asked, looking over at his brother, who was now eyeing the numerous flavors with a hint of gluttony.

“You can get whatever you want. I’ll even let you get more than one flavor if you want. We just can’t tell Mummy. She’ll think we’ve spoiled our dinner.” The Holmes brothers laughed, and for the first time in a while, Sherlock felt happy - and was willing to let himself feel it. He ended up with a vanilla-chocolate twist with rainbow sprinkles and pecans, though he was eager to return so he could get all the flavors. Mycroft decided on coffee and chocolate.

“Thanks, Mycroft,” said Sherlock as they left the shop.

“It’s nothing,” said Mycroft. “Do you want to try some of mine?” Sherlock nodded his head and took a lick of the scoop of coffee. He made a face.

“I don’t like it,” he said, going back to his colorful cone.

“Me neither. I just wanted to try it,” agreed Mycroft. “I wonder why grown-ups like it so much.”

“Because they’re all bitter and so’s the coffee,” said Sherlock absentmindedly. Mycroft chuckled.

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” The boys continued their walk in mostly silence as they enjoyed their cones. They were about to turn onto the street for home when Mycroft looked over at Sherlock and saw that his mouth was covered in ice cream. They couldn’t walk in the house looking like that. Even Mummy would notice it, and then they’d get in trouble. “Sherlock, we need to get you cleaned up before you go inside.”

“Or I could sneak inside,” the younger one suggested. Mycroft shook his head.

“Mummy would wonder where you were, and get angry with me for losing you.”

“Do you have a napkin?” Mycroft shook his head.

“I didn’t think you’d need one. Great, now we’ll have to go back to town.”

“Sorry,” said Sherlock in a tone that was definitely not sorry. The Holmes brothers turned around and made the second trip to town. When they finally got home a little later than expected, Mummy chastised them only for taking so long, and didn’t realize that they could’ve (and did) spoiled their appetites. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and gave him the kind of smile that happens when two people are in on a very amusing, and slightly scandalous, secret.

Sherlock couldn’t be kept content forever, though, and sure enough, late in the afternoon, Mycroft’s door swung open to reveal a very obviously bored Sherlock.

“Mycroft, what are you doing? I’m bored,” he stated unnecessarily, walking in uninvited.

“I’m working on a theoretical plan that could solve the traffic issue in London,” he said, a tad proudly. Sherlock started to play with the things in Mycroft’s room, running his hand along the books on the shelf and bouncing on the bed. He was just about to reach for a fragile glass decoration on top of the dresser when Mycroft thought of something. “I might have something you can do,” he said thoughtfully. He went to his closet and retrieved the abandoned violin that Uncle Rudy had gotten him so long ago.

“A violin?” Sherlock scrunched his face in confusion.

“Yes. I wasn’t very good at it, but you might like to try it. It came with a lesson book,” he offered. Sherlock took the case.

“I s’pose I’ll try it,” he said, thankful for the distraction. He left Mycroft to work on his (dull) traffic idea. A few minutes later, harsh, off-key plucking came from the direction of Sherlock’s room. Mycroft sighed. Hopefully Sherlock would get better at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the show said Sherlock was 8 during Carl Powers, but the show gave inconsistent dates so I had to pick my battles.


	8. The Boy and the Dog

Sherlock was not initially good at the violin. He had trouble getting his small hands to go in the right position, and the violin was tiring to hold for a long time. He practiced every day, however. By no means did his skill come naturally, which both surprised and pleased Sherlock. He liked having a challenge, and this was an excellent one. Much more stimulating than the trifling deductions he made at school. His parents and brother enjoyed listening to him play in the evenings, and (with a little convincing) at Mummy and Daddy’s parties. Mycroft was proud of Sherlock. He respected his ability to stick with things, which he had always lacked.

Sherlock spent his days much in this way, dividing his time between studying, violin, and adventures outside. Mycroft was getting too busy to play with Sherlock, as he was increasingly busy with studying and what Sherlock suspected was a plot to take over the country, but Sherlock didn’t mind. Mycroft was really starting to get on his nerves. He was becoming increasingly condescending and smothering when he wasn’t busy, so Sherlock started to spend more and more time outside of the house after school. There was a farm nearby where Sherlock helped take care of the bees. He even learned how to harvest honey.

One day in July 1990, Sherlock was on his way to the farm when the farmer, Mr. Billings, came running down the path to meet him.

“Sherlock! Daisy just gave birth to a litter of puppies!” Daisy was the old irish setter who kept Sherlock company while he wandered the fields. Sherlock broke into a wide grin and ran to meet the farmer. They’d been waiting for this for a while, and now that the day was here, Sherlock couldn’t believe it. Puppies! Mr. Billings said he might even be able to bring one home in six weeks. They got to the house, and just inside the door lay Daisy, surrounded by four sleepy puppies. Sherlock immediately knelt down to pet them, and Daisy was happy to let him. She trusted him.

“I was thinking, Sherlock, would you like to name one?” asked Mr. Billings. Sherlock nodded his head eagerly. Mr. Billings went over and picked up the runt of the litter. None of the puppies had opened their eyes, as that wouldn’t happen for another two weeks. “What do you think of this one?” he asked Sherlock.

“I think he’s the cleverest one,” Sherlock replied. “To make up for his size.” Mr. Billings chuckled.

“What do you want to name him?” he asked. Sherlock thought for a moment. He wanted to pick the perfect name. He stroked the puppy’s reddish-brown fur and had an idea.

“Redbeard,” he said. Mr. Billings smiled.

“That’s a good name,” he said. “Now, your parents are alright with the puppy?”

“I haven’t asked them yet,” said Sherlock. “I’ll do that tonight.” Mr. Billings nodded.

“Alright. If they say yes, then Redbeard’s yours.” Sherlock smiled.

That evening, Sherlock prepared a detailed argument on why he should be able to adopt Redbeard. He told Mummy and Daddy how having a dog would make him happy, instill responsibility and how it would help Mr. Billings. It would help keep him busy and out of the house. He made extra sure to say please and use his best diplomatic voice. Mycroft taught him about diplomacy, and Sherlock had never used it before now. Mummy seemed to be convinced he should have the dog, but Daddy was on the fence.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said after Sherlock had finished his argument. “It’s a lot of responsibility. And,” he continued, “I’m allergic, so the dog would have to be trained not to go on the furniture, and it would have to be outside a lot.” Sherlock nodded, taking the new information in stride.

“Not a problem, as long as he can sleep on my bed,” he said. “I have lots of time to play with him, too, so he’ll be out of your hair for the most part anyway.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Daddy.

The next evening, Sherlock prepared to use his diplomatic voice again and went downstairs to ask Daddy about Redbeard.

“Please, Daddy?” he said. “I promise I’ll take really good care of him.”

“Sorry, Sherlock,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re ready for this.”

“Myron,” began Mummy.

“No, Marie, listen. I don’t know if Sherlock’s responsible. He diligently practices the violin, yes, but what about his schoolwork?” Sherlock wasn’t so good at turning in his homework. He’d often leave it on his desk, or sometimes he wouldn’t even do it, choosing instead to do something interesting and stimulating. And when he did remember to do it and bring it in, kids often stole it and turned it in for themselves. So it was really only his fault two thirds of the time. He told his dad as much, but he just shook his head.

“Sherlock, you just proved my statement. You forget to do it, or forget to turn it in. That isn’t responsible.”

“But I don’t like homework. I like Redbeard. I’d be responsible for him.” But it was no use. There was no convincing Daddy to let him have the dog. The next day, Sherlock relayed all this to Mr. Billings.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he told Sherlock. “But you’re welcome to visit him anytime, and I won’t let him get adopted by anyone else.” Sherlock nodded his head sadly and gave Redbeard a scratch behind the ears.

Redbeard soon joined Sherlock on his wanderings around the farm, and they had lots of fun together. Redbeard was an energetic puppy, and was curious about everything around him, just like Sherlock. Redbeard made Sherlock happy, and playing with the dog was one of the few moments in his life where Sherlock felt like an ordinary kid, playing with his dog, and feeling happiness and love. They looked after the bees, and wandered by the stream, and fed the cows and horses, and played with the chickens, who admittedly were not amused.  
In three years, Sherlock’s routine almost never varied. He was becoming a skilled violinist, and Redbeard was growing and as eager to play as ever. Sherlock was constantly improving and building on his observation skills and was making faster and more detailed deductions every day. Mycroft was growing more distant as he got older and more focused on university and finding a career, though he never failed to correct Sherlock when he made a mistake.

One evening in November 1993, the Holmes were having dinner and discussing Mycroft’s future. He had turned eighteen and was preparing himself for his last years of schooling, though he still didn’t know what exactly to do after that.

“You should run for prime minister,” said Sherlock. “Because you’re good at bossing people around, and you’ve got lots of ideas on how to run the country.”

“Prime minister’s a lot of work,” said Mycroft. “Maybe I could get a smaller position and do work there.”

“You’d probably still run the country, even from a low-level position,” said Sherlock mockingly. Mummy shot him a look, however, so he stopped smirking. Mycroft pondered this for a moment.

“I might actually take you up on that, Sherlock,” he said. “Don’t get on my bad side, or I’ll exile you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Sherlock. Mummy rolled her eyes, exhausted.

“That’s enough, boys,” she said. The brothers turned back to their food silently. Sherlock wondered what it would be like to have a brother in the government. Maybe he’d get free stuff. Or maybe Mycroft could order Daddy to let him have Redbeard. Mycroft probably wouldn’t do that, though, would he? He didn’t care about anything except power.

Almost a year later, Mycroft had packed the last of his belongings and was ready to leave for university. Mummy was very emotional and Daddy had the camera out again, snapping pictures of what he said was “the last moments of Mycroft’s childhood”, or something to that effect. Sherlock thought it was dull. Mycroft was rarely around anyway, so him being gone full-time wouldn’t have much of an impact on Sherlock other than the benefit of not being corrected all the time.

“When you’re gone, can I use your room?” Sherlock asked Mycroft as they lay on the latter’s bed. It was stripped of its sheets and the room was practically bare, so it wasn’t like Mycroft planned on using it for anything when he’d come home. Mycroft was there to think about his last day at home. Sherlock was there because he was bored.

“That depends on your intention. What do you want to use it for?”

“Experiments.”

“What sort of experiments?”

“I don’t know. I could set up my chemistry set in here full-time and not have to clean it up. It would be great because then my room stays tidy - well, tidy enough for Mummy to not hound me to clean it - and you aren’t using it anyway, so you might as well let me have it.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and relented. Sherlock did have a good case. Sherlock immediately went to get his chemistry set and came back to get it set up in Mycroft’s old room.

That night, Mycroft slept in the guest bedroom. It was his last night at home, and he was eager to leave and pursue the challenge of running the country. Well. Not really. He couldn’t reveal that to be his intention if he was aiming for a small position. That would look suspicious. While Mycroft was pondering how to go about getting that position, Sherlock was thinking about how exciting it would be to be out of Mycroft’s shadow, and to have the run of the house.


	9. A Fatal Disease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blatant homophobia (internalized and external) and implied aro/acephobia.

Not having Mycroft around was fun for about a week. The lack of another child to attend to made Mum and Dad smother him, and all the attention was exhausting. Not to mention, he kept being asked what he did at school and what he’d learned and all that. Not that they hadn’t asked him that before, but usually he could just say “fine” and they’d move on to Mycroft, who had a more interesting academic life. Alas, Mycroft was gone, and now Sherlock was the focus of the dinner table conversation.

“Sherlock, how was school?” asked Mum.

“Same as always,” he said, continuing to eat his food.

“And what’s same as always?” she pressed.

“Went to school, did the work, had lunch, did more work, came home.” Mum sighed.

“Why don’t you want to tell us about school?” she asked.

“Because it’s boring and it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us,” said Mum. Dad nodded.

“Tell us one specific thing you did,” said Dad.

“I got sent to the headmaster’s office,” said Sherlock, smirking. That ought to disinterest them.

“What for?” asked Mum, mouth agape.

“The teacher thought I cheated on the homework again,” he said idly. Mum shook her head and furrowed her brows.

“I’m going to have a chat with your teacher, then,” she said. “Nobody accuses my boy of cheating.” Sherlock shrank a little in his chair and his eyes widened. He did not want Mum to interfere. Then the kids would tease him more.

“No, no, Mum, I’ll talk to her. It’ll be easier for you since you don’t have to go out of your way.” Mum’s angry features softened.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” The three finished their dinner, and, as Sherlock expected, he received no more questions about his day.

Sherlock fully expected that every day would be exactly the same until he left for college. Surviving school, practicing deductions and violin, visiting Redbeard, and enduring painful family dinners. This was not very promising, but Sherlock didn’t care. Of course he didn’t care. Why would he? The Holmes boys don’t care about anything. As long as Sherlock kept his brain busy all day, he’d be fine. Absolutely fine. And at first, that’s exactly how his days were spent, and nothing interesting whatsoever happened until the autumn of 1997.

It was the first day of the new school year. Sherlock arrived and took his usual seat in the back. He was watching all the students come in and take their seats as well when a new kid walked in. He was stocky and athletically-built. He had short hair and clearly played football. He took the seat directly in front of Sherlock, who immediately straightened up and smiled automatically. The boy smiled back and sat down. Sherlock’s stomach flopped. A few seconds later, his smile faded and then he realized he didn’t mean to smile. Why would he do that? He never smiled at school. He suddenly became aware of his increased heart rate and clammy hands. He felt like he was perspiring more than usual. This was not normal. He’d have to consult his books, or possibly the library computer.

All during the morning classes, Sherlock’s mind was preoccupied by what had happened. He couldn’t sit still, and he was having trouble focusing on the lessons. Then again, he rarely paid attention anyway. But the fact that he was focusing on a fellow classmate was strange. When lunch came, he skipped it and headed to the library, where there were a few computers to use for research. He logged on and went to a new website called WebMD. You could type in your symptoms and it would tell you what was wrong. He entered his symptoms and waited for the results.

Hypoglycemia. Hyperthyroidism. Supraventricular tachycardia. Concussion. And more. Sherlock was pretty sure he didn’t have a concussion. And low blood sugar seemed unlikely. None of the diagnoses seemed exactly right. He’d just have to ask his parents when he got home. Then they could take him to the doctor. For now, though, he just had to get through the rest of the day. He was still preoccupied by the morning’s events, however, and had zoned out.

“...Sherlock, why don’t you tell us the answer?” said the teacher suddenly. Sherlock was almost never called on anymore, so this surprised him. He tried to figure out what the question was. On the board was a map of pre-WWI Europe and a list of some of the general causes of the war. He supposed he had to say one of the missing ones.

“Nationalism,” he said with some degree of confidence despite being caught unawares. The class suppressed giggles.

“I was asking how militarism was aided by the Industrial Revolution, Sherlock,” said the teacher in an irritated voice.

“Oh, um, because the Industrial Revolution led to more powerful weapons and a faster rate of production,” he said quickly. He did not like being wrong, especially not in public, and, he thought, in front of this strange boy. Why did he care so much what the boy thought? Sherlock didn’t know. Luckily for Sherlock, he wasn’t called on for the rest of the day, and was free to be confused in peace. When he got home, he went straight to the sitting room to find Mum.

“Mum, I’m sick and need to go to the doctor,” he announced, flopping down onto the couch.

“You don’t look sick,” she said, putting a hand to his forehead to check his temperature.

“All day I was experiencing symptoms that could indicate a serious problem.”

“What symptoms?”

“Clammy hands, increased heart rate, increased perspiration, my face felt warm, and my stomach felt strange.” Mummy looked vaguely concerned for a few moments before smiling.

“When did this start?”

“This morning?”

“Anything that might have triggered it?” she said, smiling a little wider.

“It happened immediately after a new kid sat down in front of me,” he said, confused. Why does this matter? He should be taken straight to the doctor.

“Sherlock, I think you might have a thing for that new kid,” she said, clapping her hands.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, you might have a crush on the new kid.” She gave him a hug, catching him off-guard.

“Me? Crush? Never,” he said, folding his arms.

“What’s her name?” Mum asked as he stalked out of the room.

“Lovely chatting with you,” he called over his shoulder.

In the passing weeks, Sherlock’s symptoms seemed to be getting worse. The boy was occupying most of his thoughts, if only as a confusing inconvenience, and he was barely getting anything else done. And family dinners were becoming unbearable. Mum was bent on getting information out of him, and Dad seemed curious, too.

“Come on, Sherlock, tell us her name,” said Mum on their last evening before Mycroft came home for the Christmas holiday.

“I do not have a crush,” he said flatly.

“Please,” she added. Sherlock gave her a look that could only be described as a murderous glare.

“We just want to know what’s going on in your life,” said Dad.

“There is nothing going on, because I do not have a crush!” Sherlock said, standing up. “May I please be excused?” he asked, impatiently waiting for an answer.

“Tell us her name,” Mum implored. Sherlock rolled his eyes to distract from the insane flipping in his stomach. He didn’t want this crush. He didn’t want to feel this way. And he certainly did not want to feel it towards a guy. As if he weren’t bullied enough already at school. As if he weren’t strange enough. And even though he acted like he didn’t care, even though he built up so many walls and repressed so many emotions to avoid facing reality, it hurt. It all hurt so much. But there was no use in putting it off any longer. Best to tell them now. At least then he wouldn’t be keeping a secret.

“His name is Ian something,” he said, turning on his heels. He hurried up to his room before his parents could say anything. He closed and locked his door and sat down on the bed. He tried to take deep breaths, but his breathing quickened and his heart beat fast. He put his head in his hands and laid down on the bed, facing the wall with his back to the door. As expected, there was a knock.

“Sherlock, it’s Mum. May I come in?” she asked softly. Sherlock said nothing. “Sherlock, please, let me in,” she said, still using a gentle tone. Sherlock got up to unlock the door, and his mum opened it and came inside. Before Sherlock could go back to his bed, she gave him a hug. Sherlock was still silent.

“Sweetheart, I want you to know that I love you very, very much,” she began, still hugging him tightly. “And I love you no matter what,” she continued. “I’m fine with you being gay. I hope you know that. You being gay does not make a difference in how much I love you, and don’t you forget it.” Sherlock still said nothing, but now it wasn’t out of fear, but out of being rendered speechless. He hugged her back and suddenly he was crying on her shoulder. He should not be crying. None of this should be happening. He was not supposed to be emotional. He tried to stop crying and couldn’t. All the years of being bullied and ridiculed forced their way to the surface. All the years of hiding everything and pretending it didn’t matter. Rolling with the punches and ignoring the bruises. All the ones that had been and all the ones sure to come. Then he remembered what was happening in the present. He pulled away, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“What about Dad?” he asked. Mum blinked.

“What?”

“What about Dad?” he repeated, voice breaking.

“Well, um, Sherlock, he doesn’t quite… understand…” She faltered. “I’m sure he just needs time,” she finished, unsure. Sherlock nodded his head in understanding.

“Of course. He can’t wrap his mind around the fact that I’m gay. He doesn’t understand how I could be so broken,” he said, tears drying. The wave of anger faded, however, and he composed himself. “I don’t care,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Any of it,” he said. Mum stood silent and her eyes were sad.

“Sherlock,” she began. He waved his arm, once again emotionless.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night, sweetheart,” she said, closing the door. As he tried to fall asleep, he heard his dad downstairs, loudly complaining about his gay son.

“I will not have my son be some childless dandy,” he said angrily.

“Myron!” yelled Mum.

“And what about the other one?” he asked. “He’s never fancied anyone. Is he gay, too? Or does he not like anyone at all?” Dad barked a harsh, joyless laugh. Sherlock trembled in his bed, trying to dismiss the pain. Trying to ignore the venom in the words directed at him. Trying to do what he’d done for nine years. Roll with the punches. Ignore the bruises.


	10. A House Divided

Sherlock came downstairs the next morning, wary and not knowing what to expect. He entered the kitchen to find Mum seated at the table, breakfast laid out for two. Dad, who was usually there to eat with them, was nowhere to be found. He must have left early to avoid eating with him. Sherlock was a little relieved, as he really didn’t want to face him after last night. He took his seat at the table and picked at the food. Mum had worked hard and made his favorite - eggs with chips and sausage. Sherlock wasn’t really in a good mood, but he wanted to show Mum his appreciation and smiled thankfully anyway.

“How did you sleep, dear?” she asked as he took a microscopically small amount of egg on his fork.

“Alright,” he said, stifling a yawn. Mum saw through that instantly.

“Your dad had no right to say those things about you and your brother,” she said. Sherlock could tell she was angry with Dad. He shrugged and continued pushing his fork around the plate. “I mean that. And we’re going to have a proper talk about it tonight. As a family,” she said. Just as Sherlock was about to protest, he remembered Mycroft was coming home today. Great. Today just kept getting better.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because your dad needs to understand he’s wrong and make steps to amend that. And it would be best if we were all on the same page.” Sherlock sighed.

“What if he doesn’t want to understand? What if he just keeps hating me forever? A family meeting won’t fix that,” he said.

“Dad doesn’t hate you,” Mum said. “He just needs a chance to learn.” Sherlock didn’t respond, and went back to picking at his food.

All morning, Sherlock dreaded the family meeting. He hid himself up in Mycroft’s old room, now a small laboratory, and focused on his experiments. He was analyzing the dirt from the garden. When Mycroft arrived, Sherlock was amazed at how different his older brother looked. He had had a haircut and was dressing much nicer, and he carried himself as if he were important. He had also lost weight. Mycroft looked like a proper grown-up.

“So you got the government job, then?” asked Sherlock.

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock. I’ve only been away for a few months. But I am an intern now, which will look excellent on my CV.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Mycroft, it’s so wonderful to see you! We’ve missed you so much!” gushed Mum. “Why do you never call?” Her smiles and excitement turned to a warning look.

“Well, you know how it is. I’ve been very busy with the internship,” he said. He hoped she’d be distracted by his successes. It worked, and her smile returned.

“Right, of course. I’m so proud of you, Mikey,” she beamed. “So talented!” Mycroft forced a smile.

“It’s Mycroft, Mother. Not Mikey.” Mum sighed.

“You’re my boy. I gave you that name, and I can shorten it whenever I please.”

“Mother-”

“I won’t hear another word of it. Why don’t you bring your bags to your room?” she dismissed. She noticed Sherlock standing idly in the doorway. “Sherlock, help your brother with his bags.” He rolled his eyes again and picked up the smallest one while Mycroft attempted to carry all the rest. He followed Mycroft to his old room.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft gasped. There were burn marks on the carpet, as well as some mysterious stains. The room stank of chemicals and half of it was filled with a table covered in scientific instruments. What little room there was left was occupied by Mycroft’s bed and the small side table and dresser. Sherlock had really taken over since Mycroft had left. Sherlock smirked at his brother and threw the bag he was toting into the corner. He flopped onto the bed, now made up for Mycroft’s arrival, and kicked his legs. Mycroft sighed and held a hand to his temple. It was going to be a long couple of weeks. He unpacked his bags and put away his clothes, stashing the suitcases in the closet.

“So, brother dear, how have you been?” Mycroft said in an attempt at conversation. Sherlock’s smirk faded.

“Well, let’s see, I’m still being bullied, Dad hates me for being gay, I hate me for showing emotions, and now you’re here. How do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re gay?” asked Mycroft, ignoring the last comment. Sherlock nodded. “I thought you didn’t feel things that way. I thought you were like me.”

“It’s not like I’ve fallen in love with anyone or anything like that. So technically, I’m not showing emotions.” Mycroft nodded, still confused.

“But you will,” he said. Sherlock made a face.

“No, never. Gross. Emotions, especially love, just get in the way of that,” he said, gesturing to the chemical mess. “You said yourself. Caring is not an advantage.” Mycroft was rendered speechless for once. Maybe caring wasn’t the right word for what he had been trying to tell Sherlock so long ago. After all, he cared for Sherlock, and Billy, and he was on track to running the whole of the UK. In fact, he was only successful because he cared so much about losing Billy all those years ago. Caring could hardly be called a disadvantage. But that’s the word he’d chosen, because he didn’t know any better words. And Sherlock had taken that idea and run with it.

“Sherlock, emotions aren’t… bad,” Mycroft said. He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, who was now giving him a very confused look. “What I was trying to say, what I meant to say, is that… you shouldn’t care about what the other kids think. I suppose I assumed you knew what I meant.” Mycroft decided this was the simplest answer he could give.

“But you don’t care about anything,” said Sherlock.

“That’s not true,” said Mycroft quietly.

That evening, the Holmes family sat down at the kitchen table to what Sherlock decided was the worst idea ever (aside from going to public school). Mycroft looked confused, Sherlock and Dad looked uncomfortable, and Mum looked angry.

“Right, then, let’s talk about this,” she said, waving at Sherlock and Dad. “Myron, why are you unhappy that Sherlock’s gay?” Dad shifted in his seat and looked at his feet.

“Well, um, I-”

“Just say what you said last night, Dad. Or don’t. I already know,” said Sherlock. Dad sighed.

“Sherlock, what I said last night, I was just caught off-guard,” he said, dodging an apology.

“Right,” said Sherlock, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.

“I want you to know that I do love you, and I still love you, even if you’re…” he trailed off.

“Gay,” spat Sherlock. “That’s not what I heard last night.”

“Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock left his seat, unexcused, and went upstairs. He closed and locked the door, and nobody was allowed in that night.

Redbeard and the violin became Sherlock’s only true sources of solace. He spent every day either in his room, in his lab, or at the farm. Redbeard was no longer a puppy, and instead of bounding along with limitless energy, he would usually trot faithfully alongside. Sometimes Sherlock would take him on long walks through the fields and down by the stream, or sometimes they’d lie in the sun, Sherlock resting his head on Redbeard’s belly. In the evenings, music drifted downstairs from Sherlock’s room. It was sad and tragic-sounding, slow and soft and at times loud and raging. Mycroft saw him once, when the door had been left open. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he stood stock still as he played a mournful tune. Suddenly, with a big crescendo, he started moving quickly and forcefully, and the bow turned into a weapon. Sherlock never saw Mycroft standing there, and Mycroft never mentioned it.

The rest of Sherlock’s life wasn't so simple. His relationship with his dad had become strained since that horrible meeting, and his mum was caught in the middle. His parents had started fighting more, and it was usually about him. He’d overhear Mum yelling about how Dad was being unfair and how he should accept his son and show him some love. Dad would argue that homosexuality wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was still weird, and Sherlock was being petty and overdramatic in refusing to hear him out, so why should he even bother to reach out? When Mycroft was at home, he’d give Sherlock strange, searching looks, as if confused about something, though Sherlock didn’t know what that could be.

Preparing for university was a welcome relief to Sherlock. It allowed him even more time away from his parents, and distracted him from the punches life threw his way. Thanks to his intellectual prowess, he had his pick of any school, and he had decided on Cambridge. His focus became on succeeding his exams, though he was regrettably interrupted during the Christmas holiday by the Y2K panic among the ordinary people. Sherlock was irritated by their stupidity. He almost hoped their computers would crash.

Before long, it came time for Sherlock to pack his things and leave for Cambridge. Everything he wanted to bring went in boxes, and everything he didn’t want was taken to the attic by Mum before he could throw them away. He and Mum loaded the boxes into the boot of the car and then the only thing left was for Sherlock to say his goodbyes. First he went to the farm to say farewell to Redbeard.

“Hey, buddy,” he said when he walked in the house. Redbeard gave a halfhearted wag of his tail. “I’m leaving for a few months.” He scratched Redbeard behind the ears, his favorite spot. “I’ll be back for Christmas, so don’t worry.” Redbeard licked his hand. “I’ll really miss you, boy,” Sherlock finished. He put his arms around the irish setter and gave him one last scratch before standing up. “See you soon, Redbeard.” He put his hand to his forehead as a salute and left the farm.

He returned to Musgrave Hall to say goodbye to his dad. Even though they hadn’t spoken in months, Mum wouldn’t leave until Sherlock said goodbye. He found his dad in the sitting room, looking at the open pages of a book but not really reading it. He looked up as soon as Sherlock walked in, but didn’t say anything. They stared at each other for a few minutes, each not daring to speak first. Finally Sherlock cleared his throat.

“So, I’m leaving,” he said. His dad nodded.

“Cambridge,” he said. “That’s a big achievement.”

“For some people,” said Sherlock arrogantly, dismissing the compliment.

“Here to say goodbye, then?” asked his dad.

“Yep,” Sherlock said, dragging out the y and popping the p. They were silent for a few minutes.

“Well, have fun at college,” his dad said at last.

“Have fun?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” lied Sherlock. “Goodbye, Dad.” He turned and walked out of the room, not stopping until he had got into the car. He did not look back once.

“Are you ready to go, Sherlock?” asked Mum, smiling sadly. Her youngest son was leaving home, and she wasn’t quite ready.

“Yes, I think so,” he said, looking out the window towards the farm. Mum started the car, and they began the drive to Cambridge.


	11. Dog Days

Nearly two hours later, Sherlock and his mum pulled into the lot at Cambridge. Mum turned the car off and Sherlock made a move to get out of the car.

“Not so fast,” Mum said, smiling. Sherlock turned around to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t I get a goodbye?”

“Right,” said Sherlock. In all his excitement, he’d forgotten. “Goodbye, Mum. I’ll miss you,” he said. And he would. Life was easier with Mum around. Sherlock had to learn how to do laundry last week, and he did not enjoy it. He was not looking forward to looking after himself, but in all other respects he was eager to become independent.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.” Sherlock got out of the car and went to begin the next chapter of his life.  
Sherlock’s boxes made their new home in his residence, which was conveniently located near the lab. He decided it would be best to unpack his things. His chemistry set was regrettably left at home in favor of the campus facilities, so he started with throwing his sheets on the bed. He didn’t stop to make the bed, as he was content to sleep in a tangle of sheets. He put away his books and hung his clothes up in the closet, except for his pajamas, which he deposited on the bed with the mass of sheets. 

Once he had claimed his territory, he decided to go for a walk around campus, since the weather was nice enough. He started on his way when a small bull terrier ran at him and bit his ankle. He tried for some time to get the dog off of his ankle when a man came, presumably running after the dog. He looked to be about Sherlock’s age, and he had light hair and blue eyes.

“Ace, no!” he scolded. “No biting!” he joined Sherlock in freeing his ankle, and soon the dog was under control. “Sorry about that,” said the man.

“Oh, um, no worries,” said Sherlock, preoccupied with examining his ankle. It was bleeding profusely where the dog’s teeth had broken the skin. He should probably see a doctor.

“Victor,” said the man, offering his hand. A look of confusion briefly crossed Sherlock’s face before he put out his own.

“Sherlock,” he said.

“So, are you a fresher, too?” asked Victor. Sherlock nodded. “What’s your major?”

“Chemistry,” he answered. “And you?”

“Business. Um, do you need to see someone about that?” he asked, pointing to the mangled ankle.

“Probably,” said Sherlock.

“Really sorry about that, by the way,” he added. “I only just got Ace a month ago, and he still needs to be trained.”

“Ah. Well, I’d best be off,” said Sherlock, gesturing to his leg. “See you around, Victor.” He limped away in search of medical attention.

Upon visiting the doctor, Sherlock was irritated to find out the dog had been carrying some sort of disease, and he’d have to stay, bedridden, at the hospital for ten days. Sherlock and a ten-day bedrest was a recipe for disastrous boredom. He was trying to analyze the weird food served to him when the door opened and in came Victor.

“Hello,” he said meekly. “How’s the leg?” Sherlock forced a smile.

“It’s better. Apparently Ace was carrying some disease and now I have to be treated for it,” he added. Victor’s face turned red.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen-”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Sherlock. “I’m not mad. I just thought you should know, so you can treat your dog. If my dog were sick, I’d want to know about it.” Victor nodded.

“Thanks, I guess,” he said nervously. “Um, do you want to be friends, maybe? I don’t know anybody here, well, I guess none of us do, I mean, we’re all new here, and… sorry,” he said again.

“Sure, we can be friends,” Sherlock said, partially just to quiet Victor.

Over the course of the term, Sherlock and Victor hung out a lot. Neither of them had any other friends, but they were happy just to have each other. They’d walk around campus together, dine together, and study together. Although Sherlock didn’t always enjoy slowing down to match Victor’s pace, he still found it enjoyable (and an interesting study) to talk with him. Sherlock even spent one of his holidays at Victor’s parents’ home, and he found it to be quite relaxing.

Victor was also useful as a lab assistant. Whether Sherlock was experimenting in the residence kitchen or the campus labs, he always made sure Victor was available to help. He knew what Sherlock needed, when he needed it, and he didn’t ask stupid questions. The first few times Sherlock brought him along, however, things didn’t run as smoothly.

“Pass me the slide with the soil,” Sherlock had asked. Victor fumbled around with the slides for a bit before finding the right one.

“Here you go,” Victor said. Sherlock put it under the microscope and focused the lens. He sat quietly, studying the sample. Well, he tried to. Victor kept trying to talk and bumping into things. “Whatcha looking at?” Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking up at him.

“I’m studying a sample of soil from campus,” he said.

“Oh, cool. What for?”

“I believe you’d say I’m doing it for fun, though there is an ulterior motive.” Victor nodded his head.

“Right.”

“Can you pass me that Erlenmeyer flask?” Victor handed over the flask. Sherlock filled it with a clear liquid from one of the test tubes, then tipped some soil in from a tupperware container (that was where he’d gotten the sample for the slide, too). The liquid fizzed and bubbled.

“What’s that mean?” asked Victor.

“It means a certain rugby player wasn’t where he said he was and I need to go alert the authorities.” Sherlock rushed off without another word, leaving Victor confused and with the task of cleaning up after Sherlock. Thankfully, Victor soon improved at assisting Sherlock, and made things easier on him, rather than more difficult.

Victor wasn’t always helping Sherlock, though. Sherlock did his fair share of aiding Victor, usually in asking out a girl. Just like with lab assistance, being Victor’s wingman was a learned skill, and it took some time before Sherlock could properly read the cues of the social scene enough to not scare away Victor’s potential dates.

“Okay, Sherlock, can you put in a good word for me with that chick over there?” Victor asked while at a bar one evening.

“You got it.” He walked over to a young woman in a sleek dress enjoying a pint. “Hello,” he said to her. “What’s your name?”

“Sally,” she answered.

“Sherlock. Listen, my friend over there, he likes you,” said Sherlock.

“Okay, and what’s your friend like?”

“He’s a good conversationalist, very responsible, plays football, has a puppy, and can run very fast,” Sherlock said. Sally smiled.

“Bring him over, then,” she approved. Sherlock waved to Victor, who held out his hand for Sally to shake.

“Victor. Great to meet you,” he said.

“Sally. Nice to meet you, too.” Sherlock turned to Victor.

“Are you sure you want her?” He asked his friend in a low voice. “You could do loads better. She has a reputation for partying, which is clearly true. I’ve done a study on the long-term signs of the occasional use of different liquors and drugs. She’s a big spender on a small paycheck, too, I mean, look at that dress, it’s expensive, and so’s her jewelry, but the dress has been rehemmed and its cleaning job is far from professional. Not very responsible, in my opinion,” Sherlock said quickly, rattling off his observations. “I’d say she also has a boyfriend right now, and he’s cheating too, based off of…” Sherlock trailed off, suddenly aware of a pair of eyes burning the back of his head. He turned around to see Sally glaring at him.

“Sally! Um, you didn’t happen to hear that, did you?” asked Victor nervously, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs, much to the latter’s outrage. Sally sighed.

“I’ll see you later, Victor. But not you,” she said, turning to Sherlock. “Freak.” Sherlock shrugged off the comment and went back to his residence. Parties were dull anyway.

Sherlock couldn’t imagine what life would be like without Victor. Well, he could, but he didn’t want to. Whenever Victor walked into the room, Sherlock felt an inexplicable sense of happiness and calm, as if nothing bad could ever happen. He thought about him a lot when he didn’t have anything to do. This shook Sherlock a little. He had never felt about anyone in this way before. Luckily, he was able to keep busy with classes, fencing, and boxing, in addition to all the activities he did on his own. Victor came to every fencing tournament, every boxing match, and he never missed one. Before they’d start, Sherlock would scan the crowd to find Victor, and he’d always feel a little sense of pride that someone was up there rooting for him.

Sherlock didn’t have any roommates, so he was accustomed to doing whatever he pleased. He only did dishes when the alternative was eating off the ground. The first time he had no clean dishes, he had tried that. It wasn’t good. He left his laundry everywhere, except for the nice outfits he owned. He took meticulous care of those. He slept naked, tangled in his sheets. He got up as late as possible and was often late to class. He’d let dust collect until it was impossible to breathe, and even then he’d let it be for a while longer.

Sherlock was considering getting out of bed one day when there was a knock on the door. He got up, wrapped the sheet round himself and went to answer it. He opened the door to find Victor standing there, out of breath. He had clearly run all the way from his residence.

“Victor, you never call so early in the morning. What is it?” asked Sherlock, stifling a yawn.

“It’s my dad. He’s in hospital. He fainted and they're trying to wake him up. I was wondering if you could come with me to the hospital,” he said. His eyes were shiny and he looked so upset that Sherlock couldn’t turn him down, no matter how tired he was.

“Of course,” he said. Why of course? He almost never said of course to anyone when they asked him to do something. “Just, um, let me get dressed,” he said, suddenly remembering the sheet.

“Do you have a girl over? Or, um, do you always sleep like that?” asked Victor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What do you mean do I have a girl over?” Victor shook his head.

“Never mind. Don’t know why I assumed that,” he dismissed.

Once Sherlock had gotten dressed, the two friends left for the hospital.

“Are you sure you don’t need breakfast?” Victor pressed. “We can stop if you want.” Sherlock shook his head.

“Eating only slows me down.” Victor nodded the way one does when hearing the same answer to the same question a thousand times.

“Right.” They drove for a while in unusual silence. Then Victor had a question. It was nagging at the back of his head for a while, and whether it was the emotions from his father, or the silence, or something else entirely, he decided he had to ask.

“Are you, er…” Sherlock turned his head and looked at him quizzically.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you, um… play for the other team?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you gay?” Victor took a deep breath in and out as he waited for Sherlock’s answer.

“Yes.” Sherlock turned back to look out the window. His leg started to bounce uncontrollably.

“Ah,” said Victor. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to think of the tone of his voice.

Despite the awkward conversation in the car, Sherlock did his best while at the hospital to be supportive of Victor while waiting for information about his father. He offered to be a shoulder to cry on when they were told of his passing, though Victor didn’t take it. He stayed with Victor at the hospital until he was ready to leave, and then drove him to his mother’s home. Victor seemed in a bit of a hurry to get out of the car.

“Victor, I just want to say again, I’m really sorry about your father,” Sherlock said. Victor nodded.

“Thanks. Um, see you soon, I guess.” Sherlock smiled at him before turning around to drive back to campus. He was exhausted by all the emotions of the day. He wondered what Victor thought of him being gay. They didn’t really talk about it after he asked, given the circumstances. Sherlock hoped he wouldn’t be put off by it.

Sherlock waited all week for Victor to come back to school. Finally, Friday evening, he arrived. Sherlock ran to his residence to welcome him back.

“Victor! Are you feeling better?” he asked, using his best caring voice, which wasn’t hard, because he really did hope he was feeling better. Victor nodded his head but didn’t smile.

“Yeah, thanks for asking. And for being there that day. Thanks,” he said, but his tone was chilly.

“Is everything alright, Victor?” asked Sherlock. “You seem upset about something.” Victor didn’t say anything, but looked around nervously. “Victor, you can tell me.”

“Sherlock, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I… I don’t know if I’m comfortable with you being… gay. What if you fall for me? That would be weird,” he added quietly.

“You’re not comfortable with who I am,” said Sherlock, tone changing from worried to icy in a snap.

“No, I didn’t mean that, I-”

“Being gay is a part of me. It’s not all of me. But if you can’t accept that part of me,” he said. “I don’t want you,” he finished coldly. He turned and walked away, suppressing the urge to scream. He was never good enough for anybody. Or maybe they weren't good enough for him.

As he was walking back to his residence, he noticed a group of students huddled together, smoking cigarettes. For some reason he didn’t know, he found himself approaching them with his hand out expectantly. Observing their casual manner, he decided to use a similar approach.

“Hey, do you mind?” he asked. One of them, a girl, smiled and dropped a small object in his hand.

“Here, mate.” Sherlock took the cig and headed back to his residence. Once there, he grabbed a match off the table and flopped down on the couch. He struck the match, struggling to keep his hands steady as he held it to the end of the cigarette. He finally lit it up and inhaled. He coughed and gagged, and it tasted horrible and disgusting, but he took another inhale, and then another.


	12. Seven Percent Stronger

Over the course of the term, Sherlock became a regular smoker. Not only did it provide a distraction from Victor’s betrayal, it also stimulated his mind and aided him in problem-solving. And deep down, he even thought it made him look a bit cool. Despite all these benefits, however, Mum wouldn’t approve of it, so when it came time to pack to go home for the Christmas holiday, Sherlock decided to tuck the spare packs inside of a sock rolled up in a shoe. That should be safe enough. Once he had finished the exhausting ordeal of packing, he sat down for a smoke. His hands no longer shook when he lit the cigarette, and he was more than used to the toxic fumes.

After a two-hour drive, he finally arrived back at Musgrave Hall. He knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal a beaming Mum.

“Sherlock! We’ve missed you so much!” she said, hurrying to wrap him in a hug. Sherlock squirmed in discomfort and quickly pulled away, earning a sigh from Mum. Dad was standing nervously some distance behind Mum, as if he weren’t sure what to do.

“Hello, Dad,” said Sherlock, not bothering to conceal his icy tone. “Still hate me, then?”

“I don’t hate you. Never have. I’ve always loved you, Sherlock.” He shifted on his feet.

“Maybe you should have said it once in a while.” Sherlock turned and hauled his bags up to his old room, then sat on the bed, resisting the urge to have a cigarette. Eventually he decided there was no point in trying to avoid his parents any longer. He was at their house, after all. He headed downstairs and was about to enter the sitting room when he stopped just outside the door. Inside, his parents were arguing again.

“Myron, you need to talk to him. I’m not having this any longer,” hissed Mum.

“He won’t listen to me,” said Dad.

“That’s only because you didn’t listen first,” said Mum. Dad sighed.

“I’ll talk to him,” he conceded, getting up from his chair. Sherlock hurried away quietly before he could be caught eavesdropping and went upstairs to his lab. He had busied himself with some samples and a bunsen burner when there was the expected knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Sherlock. Dad walked in and went to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“What are you working on?” he asked. Truth be told, Sherlock had really just wanted to burn things.

“I’m looking at the smoke produced by overexposing these substances to heat,” he said smoothly. And that was true. He would be observing the smoke.

“Oh, nice,” said Dad. “What’s that sample?” Sherlock was confused by the direction of the conversation. He thought they’d be discussing his homosexuality, not his fake experiment.

“Um, it’s just some soil from outside.”

“What happens when you burn it?” Sherlock put it on the burner. Just as he expected, nothing really happened. He struck a match and held it directly to the soil, and it started to smoke a bit, but all in all, it was pretty dull.

“That was disappointing,” said Sherlock.

“I expected a bit more,” agreed Dad. “So, Sherlock, I wanted to talk to you.” He sat down on Mycroft’s bed and waved him over to sit next to him.

“About?” asked Sherlock innocently.

“About you. And how I haven’t been a very good dad.”

“I see.”

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I overreacted, and I was so stubborn and I couldn’t admit that I was wrong, and it got out of hand. And I should’ve been there. I should’ve been there for you when you got a crush on a boy and didn’t know what to do. And I wasn’t. I should’ve come round and listened to you, and I didn’t. I should’ve learned. I didn’t. I failed you, and I’m sorry. I can’t take back those years; there’s no chance at a do-over. I can’t unsay all the things I said. But I can stop backing them up. All I want, more than anything, is to be your dad again. And it’s okay that you’re gay. Really, it is. And whatever Mycroft is, that’s okay, too. And I’ll do my best, my absolute best, to make sure you boys understand that. So what do you say, Sherlock? Will you give me another chance?” Sherlock blinked. This was not what he expected. Honestly, he didn’t know what he expected. But it wasn’t this. He put his head in his hands, curling up into a ball perched on the edge of the bed. He was trying so hard not to get emotional, to keep cool and react reasonably. Then, his dad put an arm around him, his hand resting on his back. Sherlock the ball remained curled up, an impenetrable fortress. He didn’t know how to feel. Glad? Relieved? Bitter? Sad? All he wanted was a cigarette, to dull the confusing, painful emotions, take away the edge. Sherlock and his dad remained like this for a while before Mum called Dad down to help with dinner. Sherlock had never answered him, but he didn’t need to. Dad understood.

Sherlock finally regained his composure. He splashed his face with cold water and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. He needed to go for a walk. A walk to a specific place.

“I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder as he left the house.

“Don’t be long,” answered Mum. “Dinner’s almost ready.” Sherlock nodded and continued on his way, lighting a cigarette as he went. He headed down the familiar path to Mr. Billings’ farm, walking quickly with an air of suppressed excitement. He hadn’t seen Redbeard since the summer holiday had ended, and he was desperate to see him again. It had been a long day. Before he reached the farm, he put out the cig and stamped it under his heels. No need to smoke around Redbeard. He jogged up to the door of the house and knocked. Mr. Billings opened the door and smiled widely.

“Sherlock! Long time, no see, eh?” he asked, clapping a hand round his shoulder. Sherlock smiled in return.

“Hello, Mr. Billings. How have you been?” he asked, not listening to his answer. Instead, his eyes roamed, searching for his dog. “Where’s Redbeard?” he asked after failing to find him.

“Redbeard? Sherlock, didn’t you hear?” Sherlock’s stomach dropped.

“Hear what?” he asked, an edge of panic creeping into his voice. Mr. Billings’ face fell as he realized Sherlock hadn’t heard, and he’d have to tell him.

“Redbeard, he was old and sick, and the vet couldn’t do anything, so rather than keep him suffering, we, er, we put him down,” he said gently.

“You what?” Sherlock asked, his voice breaking. “Why did nobody tell me?”

“I told your folks, and they said they’d let you know. Did they not do that?”

“No,” answered Sherlock, his face returning to its usual stoic stare. “They did not.”

“Would you like to stay for a cuppa?” asked Billings, sensing that there was something utterly wrong. Sherlock refused the offer, however, and practically ran home. He ran upstairs to his room, and slammed the door shut. He picked up his violin, but his hands were shaking too much. He settled for another cigarette, and the room was hazy when he finally went down to dinner. He sat sulkily in his seat and angrily stabbed a forkful of food.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” asked Mum, voice full of concern. Sherlock didn’t answer. “What’s wrong?” she asked again.

“Why did nobody tell me about Redbeard?” he said harshly, jerking his head up suddenly to look them in the eye. Both parents looked down at their plates, ashamed.

“Well, we were going to, but we just never got around to it, and we figured it wasn’t a big deal; he wasn’t your dog. Sorry, sweetheart,” said Mum quietly.

“Redbeard was my dog. Just because I couldn’t bring him home doesn’t mean he wasn’t mine.” Nobody talked for the rest of the meal.

Sherlock spent the rest of the holiday waiting for it to be over. After enduring a visit from Mycroft on Christmas Day, he could stand it no longer and left to go back to Cambridge early. He spent New Year’s alone in his residence, smoking and thinking. Somehow over the holiday, word had got out, presumably from Victor. It was no secret that Sherlock was gay. When he walked by, people whispered to each other about him. Awful, horrible notes were passed, both to him and behind his back. Some boys even threw things at him while the professor wasn’t looking.

Sherlock became more and more withdrawn. He turned in even less homework and papers, his grade kept afloat only by his exam scores. Outside of classes, he only left his room when investigating something. He barely graduated in the spring, and though his whole family attended the ceremony and made a big deal of how proud they were of him, he didn’t feel like celebrating.

After he graduated, Sherlock moved to London. He needed to get away from Surrey and Cambridge; he needed something new. He tried to get a job. He tried to tolerate the dull colleagues and the insufferable politeness and camaraderie of the office, but the job was so dull that it wasn’t worth it. He stopped showing up, and was soon fired. He didn’t care. The job was stupid anyway. But being fired also meant no more paycheck. Unable to afford his flat any longer, Sherlock was forced to the streets. He lived in back alleys and under the shelter of bridges.

One cold night, Sherlock was looking for someplace that might keep him somewhat warm when he happened upon a crack den. He’d never been in such a place before, but unable to find anywhere else, he gave it a try.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone here?” He heard shuffling noises around him as the inhabitants took note of him.

“What do you want?” answered a voice.

“I was wondering if I could stay here tonight. I’m homeless and it’s rather cold outside, and-”

“Alright, you can stay.” A blanket came seemingly out of nowhere and hit his side. Sherlock picked up the filthy thing and examined it. It seemed warm enough, though it smelled ghastly. He accepted the gift and found a spot on the floor to sleep on, though he didn’t actually get much sleep. Sherlock stayed in the den for a week before the other visitors grew suspicious. He wasn’t doing any hard stuff, only the cigarettes, which was strange.

Sherlock became acquainted with the guy who had thrown him the blanket. He was in charge of the place. His name was Arthur, and he agreed to let Sherlock stay and to provide him with food, but in return, Sherlock was going to have to do some favors. The first favor was as a sniffer dog. He had to examine everyone who came in the door and make sure they didn’t bring anything seriously illegal. The second was as a watch for police, to make sure they didn’t come in. The third? Sherlock was now in charge of mixing and administering drugs. He was relatively sober and so was the most capable in the joint.

Sherlock’s situation, while stable, grew bleaker and bleaker. At some point (he couldn’t remember when), he was tempted to try a little bit of the stuff he was mixing. Cocaine. He knew it would give him more energy, which seemed interesting. It was a powder, but he didn’t like the idea of sniffing it, so he stirred it into some water and put the solution into a syringe. He jabbed the needle into his upper arm and waited for it to kick in.

Sherlock, despite what he may say about responsible usage, soon became dependent on his seven-percent solution. Reality and imagination became blurred, and every time he tried to cut back, withdrawal would hit him like a high-speed train and he’d cave in. He also tried morphine on several occasions, but nothing felt like cocaine.

One night, Sherlock decided to experiment. He mixed his normal dose of cocaine (which had slowly been increasing) with morphine. He also mixed it with other powders and solutions available to him. He filled the syringe and jabbed it into his arm. He felt a rush that was greater than anything he’d experienced before. He felt all-knowing and as if he were invincible. But he didn’t look it. His eyes were dark and sunken, his skin pale, yellowed, and stretched tight over his bones. He stank of drugs, body odor, and rot. His hair was greasy and matted, his clothes filthy and torn. He looked like a broken shell of the man who had, just four years ago, confidently strode into Cambridge, excited about the prospects of his future. But Sherlock had miscalculated the dose. He struggled to breathe as waves of nausea overcame him. He tried to take a step but couldn’t, and collapsed on the ground shaking instead. His pulse slowed, and the world blurred and went dark.


	13. Back to the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Named after the Brian May song - check it out!

“Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock?” Sherlock opened his eyes and was immediately blinded by bright lights. A monitor in the corner was beeping steadily, and an IV drip was hooked up to his arm. His head was throbbing. Sitting by his bed, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and tired, was his brother.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice was raspy and broken. Mycroft’s tense features relaxed into a relieved smile.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“You overdosed. One of the other users in the “crack-den”, to put it colloquially, phoned the emergency services, and luckily they arrived promptly. But they nearly couldn’t… you were nearly… well, you’re not now, are you?” For the first time, Sherlock saw behind Mycroft’s tough exterior. He saw a tired, worried brother who had been out of his mind since he heard the news. Sherlock had never realized Mycroft cared so much.

“Am I going to be arrested for drugs?” Sherlock never paid attention to laws. That was Mycroft’s area.

“No, since you overdosed.” Sherlock nodded his head. Just then, someone who was clearly with the police walked in. He had once-dark hair that was graying, a round nose, and almond-shaped eyes.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he said. Sherlock blinked in surprise and nodded. “Thank God, too. I thought we’d lost you. Sgt. Lestrade,” he said, holding out a hand. With the arm that wasn’t attached to the IV, Sherlock shook it.

“Sherlock Holmes,” replied Sherlock, though he figured Lestrade already knew.

“I know,” said Lestrade, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions. “That was a hell of a concoction you took,” he continued. “It’s a wonder you made it.”

“Yes, Sergeant, I was wondering if I might see what he took. Since I’m his brother,” Mycroft said. Lestrade nodded.

“I’ll get the report to you as soon as I can, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.

“And you, as soon as you’re checked out, I need to see you.”

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

“A couple of things. You’re not in trouble, though, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Lestrade said, turning to go take care of other matters.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Mycroft, both for him and for Sherlock. “Well, brother dear, I should probably get going as well. But before I leave, I’d like you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you ever do anything like this again - you better not, but if you do - , make me a list. A list of everything you take and how much.”

“Why?”

“I’m your brother and I need to know.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And, I almost forgot, I have something for you.” Sherlock looked around curiously, interest piqued. Mycroft held out an oblong package wrapped in some fancy paper. Sherlock tore at the paper, revealing a dark bundle inside. He held it up. It was a long black coat with large pockets and buttons. It looked very cool.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, admiring the clearly expensive garment.

“You’re welcome,” said Mycroft, getting up to leave. “And there’s another thing, too. Look in the pockets.” He walked away. Sherlock dug around in the pockets until he found a key with a note attached. The note had an address on it. 17 Old Montague Street. Must be a flat. Mycroft really was the best brother (but he wasn’t about to tell him that).

Before long, Sherlock was discharged and was scheduled to meet with Lestrade. He walked into New Scotland Yard, looking around for the officer.

“Mr. Holmes, excellent,” said Lestrade from behind. Sherlock whipped around and smiled politely. “Let’s use my office,” he said, leading Sherlock to a small room off of the main area. He directed Sherlock to a seat before taking one himself. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Um, better, thanks,” Sherlock said. Rarely did anyone ask how he was feeling.

“Awesome. So, first up. Your brother has requested you go to a rehab program, which I think is a good idea. What do you think?” Sherlock thought this over. It would probably be best to reset from the drugs so he could use them responsibly again.

“Sure.” Lestrade smiled, relieved at the lack of argument.

“Great. Second, you need a job.”

“Since when did the police become the unemployment agency?”

“No, it’s not - we’re offering you, specifically, a job. As a detective.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, prompting Lestrade to go on. “Your brother’s informed us of your abilities, and we think you’d be a real asset.”

“I don’t need money, though, the work itself is rewarding enough.”

“Mr. Holmes, you need a source of income.”

“Okay, then, you can tip me if you like, but I don’t need a paycheck. And Sherlock is fine.” Lestrade was visibly confused. “My brother’s apparently arranged for a flat for me, so I don’t need to pay rent.” Lestrade nodded.

“What about food?”

“I can handle that.” Lestrade sighed.

“Whatever you say. But don’t hesitate to let me know if you do need a paycheck.” Sherlock decided this Lestrade fellow was alright.

“What’s the name of my position?”

“I don’t know. If you don’t take a paycheck, then your job won’t be official. So it’s new territory. We’ve never done this before. And the higher-ups can’t know about this, Sherlock.”

“So I’m like a consulting detective, then.”

“I guess.” Sherlock smiled. Consulting detective. Brilliant.

The flat on Montague Street was small and had an unreliable heating system, but it was worlds better than the crack den. He was excited to be able to use his chemistry set again, and was eager to make the place his own. He hung his awards and degree on the wall, and devoted a whole corner of a room to his violin. He didn’t get to stay very long, however, before he went to rehab. He met lots of interesting people there, and lots of boring therapists and doctors.

After Sherlock got back from his extremely dull three-month rehabilitation, he quickly garnered a reputation among the NSY team as the genius detective. They began to consult him on almost every case, much to the distaste of Sgt. Donovan, who was still resentful of Sherlock from that party back at Cambridge. Sherlock, however, refused to have his name down as the one who solved it, and preferred to let Lestrade take the credit. Lestrade quickly rose through the ranks and was promoted to Detective Inspector.

In late November of 2009, Sherlock helped out a nice old lady named Martha Hudson. Her husband had been sentenced to death for drugs and for blowing someone’s head off, and had cheated on her, too, so Sherlock made sure that he was executed. She offered him a deal on a flat she owned in central London, in Baker Street. He’d get a discount on rent for his help with the case, but he had to find someone to live with him. Mrs. Hudson was all too aware of the effect of drugs, and though Sherlock had been to rehab and was clean (he even used nicotine patches over cigarettes), she wanted to make sure he would stay that way. It took him two whole months to find a suitable roommate, but in the end, it was worth it.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“So I’m suitable, then, am I?” asked John, a crooked grin on his face. They were heading home from Musgrave Hall, Rosie asleep in the back seat of the gray Audi. Sherlock smiled lazily back at him.

“Yes, quite sufficient.” He leaned over and put his arms around John.

“Sherlock, I’m driving.” But Sherlock persisted, and nuzzled his face into John’s shoulder. John chuckled. “Okay, then.” He removed one hand from the wheel and reached over to ruffle Sherlock’s curls. John felt Sherlock’s grip loosen as the detective drifted off to sleep. It had been a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the last chapter, folks. This is my longest fic yet, and I'm proud of how it turned out. A lot of love and consideration went into it, especially the later chapters. This wasn't originally going to be so long and it was originally just going to be Sherlock as a little kid, not his whole backstory. I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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